


Mala Suledin Nadas

by heartslogos



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 200
Words: 267,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3114221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartslogos/pseuds/heartslogos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Now you must endure.</i>
</p><p>Drabbles of the Inquisitor and those who follow. Spans the length of Inquisition all the way to post-Trespasser. Includes Jaws of Hakkon and mild cameos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**-**

The girl – and it is so hard to think of her as anything other than _the girl_ , even when the palm of her hand glows like poison and her lips part over small, sharp little teeth – rocks on her heels, digging her toes into the damp and warm soil as they set up camp.

"Do not stray far." Cassandra says, snapping orders at the elf-girl like she is a wayward child and Cassandra is her stern governess. "Do _not_ wander off chasing nugs or foxes or rams. If you see trouble come back here immediately. And in the name of Andraste, _stop trying to approach bears._ You know better."

"Yes, Cassandra." Lavellan says, complacent and quiet-shy-sweet like sunlight – already distracted by the thought of glades and grass, a Dalish through and through - as she slides over grass and dirt and steep cliffs. Cassandra lets out a huff-groan of annoyance as the Herald slides down a hill and scrambles over rocks.

She signals a few scouts to follow after her – "Do not let her get hurt."

Sera goes after her – "For an elf she ain't that bad. She doesn't rub the what's-it-about-elf-things in my face like a certain _baldy_ does."

"She's a gentle girl." Solas says as he watches Sera trail after the Herald. "But she is strong. She can and will handle herself, Seeker Cassandra."

"I know." Cassandra says after a moment, double-checking their map, occasionally glancing towards the direction the Inquisitor wandered off. "That is why I am concerned. She is _too gentle_. Too soft. It will hurt her. We cannot afford that."

"She is no soldier."

"That much is clear." Cassandra snorts.

"Perhaps we do not need soldiers." Solas muses, earning an irritated glare. "There are plenty of soldiers to fight. What we need is a guide. A light. Someone without ties, without pride, without motive. And that is her."

-

"You aren't like the other ones, are ya?" Sera says as she follows the Herald – Andraste's tits, how Lavellan can make her way over rocks and trees and puddles without shoes is beyond her. As fun as it is to get dirty and stomp around the mud, climbing rocks and trees and shit seems rather _much_.

"What do you mean?"

The Inquisitor has a nice voice. A careful one – kind of low and musical. Pretty. Sera kind of wonders what she sounds like pissed off. What she sounds like when she swears. Does she even know any curse words in the common tongue?

Note to self: get the Chargers to help her figure that one out next time they kidnap her from the blond brooding captain for drinks.

"Most other Dalish, you know, they get all up in your face about _gods_ and _tradition_ and _elven roots_ and shite. You aren't like that."

Lavellan shrugs, smiles, as she crouches to inspect some wild flowers, "The Keeper always said I was somewhat lack-luster. No ambition. No real drive. I think that is why she sent me to the conclave. So I could watch and understand the danger the world was in. So I would know why I had to be a strong Keeper."

"And now you're leading the Inquisition." Sera says. "Not how she hoped it'd turn out, huh? Bet she wasn't expectin' that, was she?"

The Inquisitor turns and raises an eyebrow at Sera.

" _No one_ expects the Inquisition, Sera." The Inquisitor tilts her head, kind of like a dog or something, and smiles. She points to a tree behind Sera, "Look, Sera, _tits_."

-

"You'll never guess what we found." Sera says. Solas glances over and he can already sense Cassandra praying to the Maker for patience.

"What?"

"Tell'm, your Holiness." Sera says, turning to Lavellan – Solas risks a glance down at her feet, and sees her covered in mud and grass stains from knee-down. The people who do her laundry must either want to wring her neck or shove her into boots and chain her in them.

"Tits." Lavellan says, placid and calm like a spring pool. "We saw tits."

A nearby scout chokes on a laugh. Solas spares a moment to be glad that no one else in their party is here with them.

Bull and Dorian might break something laughing.

Sera's smile looks like it could split her face clean in half.

"You _what_." Cassandra deadpans.

Lavellan tilts her head and makes a round shape with her hand. "You know, _tits_. We saw tits. In the trees."

"Birds." Solas clarifies before anyone can say anything further, and before the Seeker quite possibly bursts a vein and before Sera can say anything to make the situation worse than it is, "They are a type of bird, calm yourself Cassandra, before you injure yourself. Lavellan, here they are called chickadees, not tits."

"Chickadees." Lavellan repeats sounding out the word with careful consideration, drawing out the last syllable. She pauses, blinks, smiles at him, laughter dancing in her face. "A long name for such a small bird, hahren."

Solas thinks he is going to have to take Lavellan aside and warn her about the somewhat – _juvenile_ attitudes of some of the members of their group.

"Come with me da'len," Solas sighs ushering her away towards a nearby brook, "And wash your feet."

-

"She is unaware of the affect she has on people." Dorian says to the world at large when he finds her at the stables after half an hour of wandering Skyhold.

"My dear," He turns to the Herald who's dozing, half in a pile of hay, half hanging over the lower rung of a wooden fence. "You have absolutely no idea about the things you do to people."

"I scare people because I am an elf and I have magic and I am a heretic." Lavellan mumbles, still half-asleep, slithering down until she is on the dirt, sprawling out in the sunlight. Her bare toes wiggle as she shimmies around until she is comfortable, like a cat.

"You have a reputation to uphold, darling." Vivienne says, "Do attempt to control yourself."

"Sorry." Lavellan mumbles, "The horses don't mind, though."

"Dear, the horses probably think you are a strange infestation that is hoarding their hay." Vivienne sighs, shaking her head. "I despair of whoever is going to attempt to teach you court etiquette."

"It will probably be you." Dorian points out, "No one here is as good at the game as the infamous _Madam de Fer_."

"Flattery, in this case, will get no one anywhere. Inquisitor you will soil your clothing."

"I'm wearing the ones you don't like. It shouldn't matter. I'll change afterwards, I promise." Lavellan says, glumly sitting up and picking at her hair. "I miss _grass_."

Dorian laughs. "Shouldn't have made your headquarters in the middle of the mountains then."

"I didn't choose it." Lavellan mutters. "I didn't choose any of it."

"No, it chose you." Vivienne says, face softening for a moment. "Oh, _come here_." Vivienne sighs, leaning over the fence to deftly pick things out of the girl's hair, then neatly arranging it into something respectable. "I know that you are going to be ruining this the moment my back is turned, dear, but you could at least make an attempt at being less of a wild thing. It won't do if the world thinks the Herald of Andraste is a rambunctious child with absolutely no self control or attention span. It would ruin my reputation."

-

"The Inquisitor is hiding underneath your desk, isn't she?" Cullen says with a sigh when he comes back from scouring Skyhold for the second time, searching out for a sign of their Herald.

Josephine hums, "What ever gives you that idea?"

"Because it is quite possibly the one place she could fit and hide where no one would ever look."

"There's Madame de Fer's quarters."

"Yes, but _no one_ would risk it. The Inquisitor is young and untested and occasionally reckless, not suicidal."

Josephine looks at him for a long moment, lips twitching up before she pushes away from her desk and looks down, "I'm afraid the jig is up, my dear."

"What jig? Were we dancing? I'm not good at dancing, Vivienne has been trying to teach me though. She says I've shown great improvement." Lavellan's voice is slightly muffled but he can almost hear her wide eyes and her cocked head. Lavellan comes crawling around the side of the desk, swiftly rising to her feet, head ducked under Cullen's gaze. He can see the crumbles of the cookies Joesphine and various other women keep forcing into the girl's hands -

She's so skinny, the quartermaster hisses, _look at her_ , Commander. I feel absolutely terrible looking at her. Skin and bones and grass and she has to save the _world?_

"It's an expression." Cullen says, "Why were you hiding from me?"

Lavellan kicks her heel against the stone floor, shrugging, "I thought you were coming to yell at me."

Cullen blinks. "Why would I be coming to yell at you?"

Lavellan's cheeks are high spots of color that make her marks fade out a little, "I thought you were mad at me. I didn't _know_ what Sera was going to do with the powder, I swear. We just got to talking and then she asked me to show her how to make it and I didn't want to tell her _no._ She's very nice and it's nice talking with her, she's very _bold_ , you know? And well - She didn't tell me she was going to use it on _you_ – "

"You're the one who made the itching powder?" Cullen raises his eyebrows. "Wait, no. That's not why I'm looking for you. And if I'm going to yell about it to anyone it's Sera – I'm here because a letter came from your clan for you."

"Oh." The Inquisitor blinks, bird-like and ethereal in her own way. "Well why didn't you say so?"

"I would have." Cullen says, dry as he hands her the letter, "But you've been hiding all morning. I was considering having one of the girls wait for you in the privy."

-

"I've lost the Inquisitor." The scout says. Cassandra closes her eyes.

The Inquisitor does have something of a habit of wandering off when no one is looking, before creeping back during the ensuing chaos and sliding into place like she was never gone at all.

Varric thinks that the Rivaini would get a kick out of her. It's a shame that Lavellan isn't a thief. She has the light fingers and the gait of a cat.

"Cool it, Seeker. I know where she is." Varric says."She just needs some time alone."

"Is she in any danger, Varric?"

"Nah. She's fine." Varric says, scratching at his chin. "Just needs to be alone."

Hawke always disappeared, especially towards the end. Disappeared to be alone and to scream and rant and deal with the world bearing down on her shoulders. Varric always knew where she went, of course. Watched over her a couple of times to make sure no one interrupted her precious time.

The Herald is tucked away in the back of the Skyhold – where the repair efforts haven't quite reached it yet, obscured by fallen and rotting wood  - , curled up small and near-invisible in the shadows.

"It _hurts_. _Halani_ , Keeper. _Halani_." She whispers, curled over her right hand. He can see the green light escaping the bindings she's wrapped around her mark in faint wisps.

Poor kid.

She reminds him of Merrill in so many ways. Both of them so young, so optimistic. Untried and unversed in the ways of the world outside of the forests and fields of the Dalish.

"You'll be alright, Poppy." He says. She startles, despite how far away he is, looking up at him with sharp,, wide and wet eyes. She quickly swipes her hand over her eyes, sniffing, shoving the hand with her mark behind her back.

"Who is poppy, Varric? Are they hurt?"

"It's a nickname, kid." Varric says, walking over. "Like how I call Dorian Sparkles and the Bull Tiny. You're Poppy. Like the flower."

"I like poppies. They're very pretty." She says, blinking. "I saw a field of them once, like a sea of red. II took some with me. I pressed them between the pages of your book."

"Pretty, just like you." Varric agrees, pulling out a handkerchief and handing to her. "So smile like the poppies, kid. You'll be fine, just like they are."

Lavellan sniffs, dabbing at her eyes before focusing on him again.

" _Ma serannas, ma'falon."_ She says. And for a moment, Varric sees a little of the woman she might be if she grows up. A feeling that pricks the back of his neck like when he first met Hawke. Heroes.

"Anytime, Poppy, anytime."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are plants stuck on your mount's antlers." Blackwall feels the need to point out.

**-**

He was _supposed_ to be her damned _body guard_. That's what he told her. When he signed on.

( _But you're not just getting the boys. You're getting me. You need a frontline bodyguard. I'm your man. Whatever it is – demons, dragons? The bigger the better._ )

He said that to her face, and she trusted him with that. Signed him on, Qunari spy and all.

She sleeps for three days, alternating between shivering and being deathly still. Like a corpse.

Bull knows that blame is flying around their make-shift camp like fucking arrows. Slung from one person to another.

Most of them – most of them are focused on the fact that the Herald rose from the dead after appearing to get killed by the dragon and the weird Vint.

The Commander – Cullen – he's been in a row of self-flagellation the entire damn time, alternating between fretting quietly near the entryway of where they've lain her down and smothered her in blankets, and getting into spats with the other leaders of the Inquisition. Blames himself for letting her go out. Blames himself for the plan.

(This is why Cullen is not the leader. This is why _she_ will lead. This is why _he_ follows _her_.)

Bull breathes out, sharp through his nose. The cold stings and he wonders how the hell Lavellan even survived.

(Small things lose body heat faster. It's about skin and meat and bone and how much of it there is. That's why the children always go first.)

"Any change?" He asks when he sees the Seeker walk out of Lavellan's tent. The Chantry mother has been with her the entire time.

Cassandra shakes her head, a sharp movement that matches the sharp line of her angry mouth.

"None." She bites out, "She is neither here nor there. Not bad, not good. It is worrisome. We do not have the supplies to take care of her."

Or walls to keep off the damn wind.

"I can send my guy over." Bull offers. "Stitches might be able to pull something off."

"It is out of our hands, now." She says, moving towards the maps. He doesn't know why. There's nothing around for miles. They're in the ass-crack of nowhere. He supposes she just needs something to do. Something to drive her, a purpose in finding a hidden clue to protect her people. Bull understands that. Respects it. "It is up to her will."

"She'll make it." Bull says, earning a look from the Seeker, "She's a tough kid."

Basalit-an. He thinks that she has the stuff in her to be that. She is clever and headstrong, she's got her head on right and her eyes where they should be.

The Seeker's lips twitch upwards. "Your confidence is inspiring."

"It comes from an inspiring leader."

She will survive. He knows it in his gut. It's a feeling. If she could survive a damned hole in the sky she sure as hell is going to survive this.

-

"There are plants stuck on your mount's antlers." Blackwall feels the need to point out.

"Yes. There are." Lavellan says, calmly swinging her legs from where she's perched on the edge of a stable wall. Blackwall resists the urge to put his hand on her back, to hold her steady. The Inquisitor is more than capable of balancing on her own. No matter how much it looks like she's going to fall.

He is fairly certain that Master Dennet has been piling hay on the other side of that wall for the past few days for the particular purpose of catching her in that event.

Blackwall waits for her to say something more. She looks from him to the stag's antlers, hums, and continues sitting there in quiet contemplation. He has often wondered about the Dalish and their mounts. It is said they listen to no one but their caretakers. Something like a mabari and their master. It certainly looks like the girl is having some sort of communication with the stag.

Then again, the Herald seems to be able to have quiet communion with falling leaves in the courtyard, too.

She is an _odd_ one.

When it becomes apparent that she is not going to say anything more without prompting – something she often does, he finds, usually when explanation is needed most, whether this is on purpose or not he isn't quite sure yet – Blackwall clears his throat.

Lavellan blinks, tilting her head. "Yes, Blackwall?"

"Are the plants _supposed_ to be on the stag's antlers?"

"Yes." Lavellan says. "I put them there. Cole helped me. I think they're lovely. Don't you? Cole caught me thinking of my clan and the memories I had of picking flowers for the Keeper. He led me to a grove and we picked flowers together and put them on _ma'vhenan_ 's crown. I think they look dashing. He's very pleased with them."

And then there are times when words gush out of her like water from a brook.

"Ah." Blackwall says, considers retreating back into the stables where he's been taking up residence. "When was this?"

"This morning." Lavellan says. "Varric said we should take a stroll. Cole said he knew a wonderful place to walk. Not in those words, of course. Cole has a very interesting way of saying things, doesn't he?"

"That's one way to put it. I suppose."

The Seeker had been looking for the Herald all morning, nearly stomping around the courtyard. Sera suggested the Seeker look underneath a tree.

Seeker Cassandra seemed close to wringing her neck. Blackwall has to admit that Sera can be somewhat _grating_ after a while.

Lavellan continues looking at him. Blackwall stares back at her.

"Yes?"

"Do you think that they look nice?" Lavellan asks, reaching up with one hand to run her hand underneath the stag's jaw.

Blackwall shrugs. "I suppose they do. Probably make'm smell nicer, also."

Lavellan flashes a smile at him before tipping backwards. Blackwall hears the rustle of hay and sighs. Her dark head pops up a moment later and she's climbing over the stable wall and jogging across the courtyard.

He turns to the mount.

"She's left her shoes again."

The stag blows air into his face and tosses his head.

Blackwall sighs and resigns himself to having to chase the girl over Skyhold to bring them back to her. Maker knows that's the only way they're getting back on her feet.

-

"This is called a trust fall." Krem says as Lavellan watches the Chargers' spar and practice with each other, helping the new recruits to the Inquisition get their bearings. It's important to get everyone working together. "You fall and let the person behind you catch you. It helps you remember that when you fall in battle, you are not alone. That you can put your faith in those around you to keep you safe. To stand with you."

Gotta figure out who not to stick the point bits of the sword into before you learn how to properly point the damn thing, after all.

"A trust fall." Lavellan repeats, like a schoolchild. Krem quirks a lip up as she slings her arms over the wooden fence of the training yard. He notes that she's lost her shoes again. Stubborn elf. He's surprised she hasn't cut her foot on something yet. As far as he can tell, she only wears shoes when Vivienne is near or when she's doing proper Inquisition work. "Do all the Chargers do trust falls with each other? Is that something warriors do? Or is it only humans? Our hunters don't do this."

"No. It's a common enough thing. Not standard, but it's something people do." Krem says. "Yeah, the Chargers generally do it when we get fresh meat – new people. Not real meat." Krem quickly explains when he sees Lavellan's brows dipping together.

Lavellan hums, then stops – blinks, and abruptly starts giggling. Her nose crinkles up and her lips part to reveal her teeth as she snickers. Soft, quiet, girlish sounds.

Krem raises an eyebrow.

"What's so funny, your Holiness?"

(Krem knows that the title makes her laugh, too. It amuses her as much as it makes her uncomfortable. It's a joke among most of the chargers to call her that. She is _Boss_ and _Inquisitor_. Lavellan. That first. Commander first.)

"A trust fall with The Iron Bull." She whisper-laughs, covering her mouth with her hands. "He'd _crush you!_ "

Krem snorts, bursting into laughter next to her.

It _is_ a damn hilarious image.

-

"She's going to snap her fool neck." Blackwall says in a fit of anger and worry. "Someone get her _down_."

"Aw, cool it, hair-ball." Sera says, craning her neck to watch the Inquisitor, "She's fine. Sure footed as a mountain goat, yeah? I mean, what else did she do her entire life _but_ pull crazy nature stunts and shit?"

"Lady Herald get _down_ from there before you hurt yourself."

"Or someone else when you fall on them." Sera tacks on. "Seriously, it's fine. She's fine. We're fine. I mean – as fine as possible at the moment. Like. As fine as anyone normally is given the current shite circumstances of the world going ass-up. She's just getting some rash-weed or rag-weed or whatever. She's done this loads of times."

"Not over a sheer drop on a waterfall she hasn't."

"First time for everything, yeah?"

"I'd rather not watch the Inquisitor plummet to her death in front of me. Maker's _balls_ , the Seeker would have our _hides_."

Sera snickers.

-

"You know, Varric, your books are very popular among my clan." Lavellan says turning away from the game of Wicked Grace the chargers are playing, with added commentary from Dorian and Sera. "I don't suppose that you'll tell me what happens next in your _Swords and Shields_ serial if I ask very, _very_ nicely?"

Varric raises an eyebrow. "You guys read that? I thought it was only for romantics like the Seeker."

"It's very lovely and sweet." Lavellan says. "I'll have you know that I spent ages saving up to buy your books. And I had to go to _three_ different shem cities to find them, Varric! _Three!_ Then I had to share them with the rest of the clan. I got into a fight with Melani because she was hogging _Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder_ and no one else could read it."

"I'm surprised you guys read that stuff." Varric laughs, "Not exactly the highest quality of literature, Poppy."

Lavellan wrinkles her nose, "Well – we did have to hide the _Swords and Shields_ series from the Keeper and the _hahren_. It's something of a contraband, I suppose. But it is so _good_ , Varric, please, won't you tell me what happens next? All of the others back at the clan must be bursting with envy that I get to talk to you."

"Kid, I don't even know what's gonna happen next." Varric says, "You can talk to the Seeker and speculate, though. I like listening to the fan theories."

Lavellan fidgets, "It doesn't seem very professional, though. And the Seeker is a very professional woman. She already thinks I am a child. I do not want to add to that."

"Poppy, trust me when I say that everyone here has a deep respect for you. We've seen you go all elf-sparkler and set things on fire or call down lightning. You just tend to undercut that possibly fierce reputation by walking around and following chickens."

"I wanted to make sure they got back safely!"

Varric takes a long swig from his ale. "Poppy, there's an elf back at Kirkwall that I really think you oughta meet. The two of you'd probably drive Buttercup and Chuckles insane. But I think you'd get along like a house on fire."

"I know that expression." Lavellan preens, moving back and to the side when one of the chargers bursts into irritated flailing at the cheating. "Cullen and Josephine have been teaching me the shem expressions. Many of them are very odd but I like them very much."

-

"You aren't particularly defensive of some of the more – aggressive things I say. Or blatantly derisive things Sera says." Solas muses as Lavellan helps him mix paint for his fresco. "I find that curious. Might I inquire as to why? You are the First of your clan, yes? I would think you would be more protective of your clan's beliefs. Traditions. Most other Dalish are."

"Your mind is made up. Your course is set. I cannot divert a waterfall." Lavellan says, shrugging. "Your mind is your own, hahren. I do not seek to change it. I have nothing to prove to you, and the Dalish care not to force those into their ranks who would not believe or welcome change."

"A wise outlook for one so young. It takes most many years to understand that." Solas says, impressed by her words. It is at times like these, he thinks, that her ability to lead shines through. She would have, perhaps, made an excellent Keeper for her clan. An example for many Dalish. Though he thinks that after this, the Dalish might not particularly want her back.

She's soaked up many influences from the far corners of the world by now. He wonders if she would even be able to _want_ to return to her sheltered and isolated life of before.

"You love our culture and our history in your own way, hahren." Lavellan blinks up at him. "You have much more experience than I do. And Sera's experiences are different from mine, entirely. It seems more common sense than wisdom than to let you both be. Isn't that something like flinging a quail off a cliff and telling it to fly because all birds do?"

"A somewhat colorful, if not accurate comparison." Solas concedes. "Your Keeper must have raised you well."

"According to the rest of my clan, not as well as she could have." Lavellan laughs. " I am mostly sure they sent me away so they could take a break."

Solas thinks that perhaps Lavellan's Keeper and Seeker Cassandra could exchange a few tips on handling the Inquisitor's somewhat _breezy_ attitude.

"I would not mind if you told me more of what you have learned in the Fade, hahren. I like hearing your thoughts." Lavellan continues, handing him a freshly mixed purple. "You explain things well. I think that if you chose to you could make a very good Keeper."

"I thank you, da'len. It is a kind sentiment. But not a life meant for me, I should think. Unless all those who would seek my advice were as opened minded as you are."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can feel the hurt. It's an old hurt, healing. New skin stretched over an old wound. A clean heal. The faintest line.

**-**

"I can't believe you've lost to the Inquisitor at Diamondback _ten times_ in a row." Sera says, "Either you're easy pickings or have no pride. She's soft as a lamb, and I know you cheat."

"She has a _talent_." Krem protests. "It's _uncanny_. Boss is figuring out how to steal her after this is over and drag her around the country to scam people as we speak."

"She's playing another round, ain't she?" Sera says.

"Yeah. It's not like she's running out of shit to bet with." Krem snorts. "That and she's got Varric backing her. He likes her."

"He has a thing for taking people under his hairy wing." Sera rolls her eyes. "He's weird like that. So who's she beaten into the dirt so far?"

"Half the Charges. Boss quit while he was ahead. Probably some sort of delayed self-preservation instinct kicking in. Maker knows he's got a crazy sense for when and where shit's gonna happen. The dwarf decided to sit back and watch. The mage is still going, he's mostly entertained by it all. Blackwall's broke."

Sera snickers, "This I've gotta see with my own eyes."

"Don't get dragged in. She's _ruthless_."

"And doesn't even know it?"

Krem grins, wolf-like and everything sharp. "That's what makes it fascinating."

-

At some point, when no one was looking, the Inquisitor climbed up the Bull's back and perched on his shoulders, curling over his head to continue watching the increasingly tense tournament of Wicked Grace.

Bull grunts, low and quiet, squeezing her ankle before letting to to focus on the game.

"I'm fairly certain no one's ever had the guts to do that before." Krem says to her.

"I couldn't see." Lavellan says. "Besides, with what I'm told the Inquisition is paying you, I should at least be able to borrow his shoulders."

"You can borrow more than that anytime, Boss." Bull says, flicking her toes. "But right now you and Krem there could shut up and let me focus."

"What's the matter, boss? Distracted by having an elf on your head? Don't tell me you and all your big-bad-Qunari training can't handle a little distraction." Krem teases.

"Krem. I value you as a close friend and ally, but I swear I am _this_ close to telling you to – "

"Angel of death!" Dorian declares, slamming the card on the table. "Hands!"

"Damn." Bull says when Dorian places down Songs and Knights. Lavellan hums. "Looks like I _fucking win again, Vint._ Full house, Angels over Knights. You owe the Chargers drinks."

"I swear you cheat, I just can't figure out how." Dorian says, standing to pay for said drinks.

"I got an elf of luck on my shoulder." Bull explains with a grin.

"Then next time I'm borrowing the Herald's blessed luck. You'll let me borrow you, won't you, my dear? Who do you like better, this brute with one eye or me?"

-

"Blackberries, so soft and warm in my fingers, like baby's little hand. Soft and warm and squishy, bursts red just like baby did when they came for us with fire and metal why did they do that, da, why did they do that to the baby, where is the baby now, the blackberries stain my fingers, did the baby stain them?"

Lavellan looks at Cole, looks at him and he thinks she can look into him like he looks into her, she looks into them all and sees the bright spots and makes the hurting parts hurt less. She's like elfroot and warm broth and gentle undersides of green leaves.

"I forgot that memory." She whispers.

"No." Cole shakes his head. "You buried it. I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. But you know that, already."

"I was very young." Lavellan says, closing her eyes. Her eyelashes fan over her cheeks like bird wings and she is anything but the fan of wings, she is sheltering wings but she is not feathers she is scale and horn and claw. Cole sees this, knows it. "I don't feel the pain, I never knew him."

He can feel the hurt. It's an old hurt, healing. New skin stretched over an old wound. A clean heal. The faintest line.

Cole sits next to her on the warm stone. They look at Skyfall unfolding around them. Dwarves and elves and people and cows and chickens and her stag and a Tevinters and people from Ferelden and Orlais -

"The berries are sweet." Cole says, "The grass smells good and the dirt is good and soft. A nest, there will be eggs for supper, small little eggs. One for me, one for baby, one for ma, one for pa. But the berries are the sweetest and so many they burst on the tongue, they fill the belly, it is good. Happy, warm, content. Want to burst into song. A song about blackberries. The halla gave birth to new babies, they walk funny, Keeper said that one is mine. He is mine like baby is mine, bring him berries. Best way to make friends, everyone knows. Someday I will bring baby berries, too, when he is tired of mamae's milk."

He almost startles when she leans against him. She's warm and her head is heavy on his shoulder. He holds very still for her.

"Thank you, Cole."

-

"I think that you are greatly overestimating the Dalish." Lavellan says, eyebrow raised, "We really don't' live the exciting lives of nature enthusiastic you seem to think we do, Sera. It's just twenty or thirty of us crammed together in the wilderness doing our best to escape the shem and not wring each other's throats when we get restless. There isn't much for us to do aside _from_ practicing how to gamble."

"You dirty little cheat." Sera repeats, "I want my money back."

"You're just angry because you didn't expect me to cheat better than you." Lavellan laughs, springing off the bench when Sera lunges at her. Lavellan retreats to the other side of the Iron Bull, who laughs and watches as she weaves through him and the rest of the Chargers like a cat as Sera takes chase. "If it makes you feel better, Sera, I recently just got good enough to beat the Second of my clan and some of the older hunters."

"I can't believe people think you're an innocent, prancing, flower princess." Sera says, eventually catching her and getting her into headlock. "You're a sneaking sneak!"

Lavellan squirms, "Did you think we sat around telling stories of wolves and birds and trees all day in between stalking the forest for deer?"

"Well maybe you fit in a few hours to punch bears or wrangle deer." Sera snorts, "What else do you people do? Have orgies? Dance naked in the moonlight? Read naughty, naughty books?"

"Well _some_ people do, just not that I know of. Why, Sera, are you considering joining if they do?"

"It's like you're recruiting for a cult." Sera sighs with disgust, letting Lavellan go. "A cult of green bits and shite."

"I am recruiting for a cult." Lavellan points out, holding up her wrapped palm and pointing at it. "With glowing green bits." Lavellan points towards the stables, "We even have the refuse."

"You're impossible. You're enjoying this. I think you like fucking with people's heads and expectations." Sera says, flopping down next to a dozing Dalish who grunts and nearly elbows Sera in the throat. Sera wrinkles her nose. "Oy, Bull, do all your guys have reflexes to kill in their sleep?"

"Only the good ones." Bull says.

"Remind me never to startle you in your sleep." Lavellan says, "You might flatten me against a wall."

"I'd flatten you against other thinks first, Boss. I'm a gentleman like that." Bull winks at her, laughs at the high spots of color on her face.

"Sometimes I am not sure if I'm the one who's strange here." Lavellan complains, slipping into the relative safety of sitting next to Krem and Stitches. "The rest of you seem thousands of times stranger than anyone I've ever met. And I met a man who claimed to be a werewolf, once."

-

Lavellan's eyes are sharp – glass and broken, jagged steel – when she looks up. She looks into him for a long time before tilting her head down. But she doesn't look away.

Good. She is a strong girl. Perhaps she will survive this trial after all.

"Hahren." She says, low, careful. Her eyes don't leave his face and she can see him studying her. All the ways he is not Dalish but is.

"Peace, da'len. I am only here to check on you." Solas says, holding out his hand to her. "Your hand."

"She looks from him to the glowing light on her palm, fingers curling to trap it. It makes the skin of her hand glow. She cautiously stretches her thin arm out to him, fingers uncurling like flower petals. A soft girl. Unused to the world of men, the world torn apart by war. She is wise to be cautious.

"Your name is Solas." She says when he takes her hand in his. "You are – not Dalish."

"No. I am not Dalish. Not as you are." Solas says. There will be time later, he reminds himself. _Do not upset her, now._

"You know much about the mark and the Fade." She continues, fingers softly twitching in his palm. "Will you tell me what you know, hahren? I do not like – I do not like not knowing."

Is that why you were at the Conclave? Perhaps her clan is not as foolish as the others, then.

The time of the elves has long past. Gone and lost to the farthest corners of the Fade, where only he can find them.

It is wise to try to accept the here, the now.

"Yes." Solas says. "As much as I am able. There is very little to know, at this point."

"Then will you tell me about the people here? I know little, and I would like any advice you could give me on not offending them."

Solas tilts his head at her, humming as he runs his magic over hers. her magic is as soft as the rest of her. Fresh, new. Like the silk water of a small trickling, singing stream or sunlight through leaves. It is young, magic. Unused to warfare or combat. He is certain she must have used magic to fight before. But not well. He can feel the edges where her magic has already begun to harden. Freeze and condense to turn into something solid. Something more dangerous.

"Yes. I suppose I can, but I do not think I could tell you everything. I do not know most of these people, myself. You are not used to walking among the humans, Lavellan?"

"No. Our clan really only interacted with traders and refugees. Neither wanted much to do with us." Lavellan said. "It wasn't safe, the Keeper said. We had to go far north. Away from the wars until the humans calmed down."

"A smart choice." Solas says, pulling his magic from hers. The mark has not affected her, it does not taint her. That is good. He hopes that will please the Seeker enough that she stops looking at them like she wants to lock them in a dungeon. "Though somewhat impractical. Humans rarely ever calm down, I find. Rest some more, Lavellan. I have a feeling that you will be needing it."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If a dragon can't kill me this wont." Lavellan protests as Dorian attempts to clean dirt out of the raw skin, making soft noises of disgust.

**-**

The girl moves like silk and serpents, graceful and sure-footed, rippling over the landscape and cutting through hills and forests like an arrow flying true.

"The path takes too long." Lavellan says, trying to coax Vivienne into following her down a steep embankment. "I can see the camp from here."

"My dear," Vivienne sighs, "I hope you realize it takes a very special type of person to convince me to gallivant around the middle of nowhere."

"Tents, ma'am." Lavellan deadpans. " _Tents_ and warm food and blankets."

"My have the standards dropped." Vivienne replies, "When I offered my services to the Inquisition I did not expect myself to be traipsing through the woods fighting crocodiles and bears, my dear."

"When I went to the Conclave I didn't expect anything." Lavellan replies, holding her hands out to steady her. Vivienne takes Lavellan's hand, smiling in thanks.

"I was hoping you'd use my talents for more – shall we say, refined activities?"

"I already have Josephine for that." Lavellan replies, tilting her head.

"Darling girl, next time just give me a warning when you want to bring me to a swamp."

-

"Dorian – I'm glad you're here. It's too – it's too _quiet_ without you. You fill the empty space." Lavellan says, sounding remarkably clear despite how drunk she is. Dorian thinks they still have quite a way to go before he can safely let her loose among the taverns without supervision, though.

"You know, darling, this is probably the closest I will ever get to getting in bed with a gorgeous woman." Dorian says, sounding much more sloshed that she does. "Much to the disappointment, I'm sure, of many, many people. I'm not even going to count how many."

Lavellan giggles, rolling over onto her side and curling up a little. "Most of them men who are missing out on your singular experience?"

"Exactly my dear." He says, tapping her on the nose. Somehow he manages to do it without poking out her eye. She could match the qunari then.

Dorian sighs, closing his eyes. "You really need to make more use of these rooms of yours."

"Too big. Too much – this could fit half my clan, Dorian." Lavellan mutters. "And it's too _quiet_. And there are no trees!"

"I should hope not, dear girl. If there was a tree growing in the middle of your room I think we would have problems. And a pest issue." Dorian laughs.

"It's _quiet_." Lavellan repeats. "I can't hear anything at all. It's _eerie_."

"It's called _privacy_." Dorian snorts, "And it's something a great many people want in cramped quarters."

"I know, but this does seem excessive – doesn't it? I have two closets, Dorian. _Two_. I barely own three changes of clothes. And I'm wearing one of them right now. And I also have – I don't know what it's called." She makes a vague gesture towards the ceiling. "What is that? Why is that there? Why would I want to survey this room?"

Dorian imagines Lavellan standing on that walkway, right underneath the Inquisition's banner and bursts out laughing.

"Exactly!" Lavellan exclaims. "No sense! And you shem call us Dalish _impractical_."

"Stone walls are somewhat logical against freezing wind in comparison to tents, you must admit." Dorian says, "But yes, I do suppose this is somewhat grandiose for a bedroom."

-

"So – what's the story behind your mark-thingies?" Sera asks, "How'd you earn them or whatever it is you have to do to prove you're worthy to get someone take a needle to your sensitive bits?"

Lavellan blinks, "The vallaslin?"

"Yeah, those things." Sera gestures towards Lavellan's face. Laughs when Lavellan jerks back and almost tips straight into Dorian who steadies her with a gentle hand on the waist and a thoughtless – _careful dear, I'm not washing this swill out of these robes –_ "What'd you do? First kill, perform a magic cermony, wrestle a bear naked?"

"Sera, no one gets their vallaslin for their first _kill_." Lavellan giggles. "If they did then children would be walking around with little marked up faces and it'd stretch and look terrible when they get older. I'd have gotten them when I was ten and I probably would have cried my lungs out and shamed the entire clan."

"What the hell, girl, what in flames did you kill when you were ten? A rabbit?"

"A man." Lavellan says, tilting her head. Something sparks in her eyes, hardens. Like watching those rift-things fold and unfold, opening and sealing. Lavellan's voice drops and Sera finds herself leaning in to hear her. The noise of the tavern raises around them. "The Keeper – and all the hahren, the elders – always said, always said _don't let them take you alive_. They always told us _die first_ , to fight, to never let our people, to never let ourselves, be dishonored again. So I did. I fought. I don't – I don't know if that's different, here. For the shems."

Lavellan waves a hand, and her face is sharp and wild and all the things Sera remembers from seeing the new Dalish coming into the alienage and the city.

" _Emma shem'nan. Tel'abelas_." Lavellan says, "I regret nothing. We fled, but we fled with our honor intact. I was proud." Lavellan smiles, "So no, Sera. It is not a first kill that denotes the time for the blood writing. That is not why I became ready."

-

"You miss them. The rest of your clan. The smell of the packed earth and grass beneath your feet. Cooking on the open fire, the sound of logs cracking and splitting. The Keeper's stories and the soft sounds of the halla around you. Your parents singing you to sleep and the feeling of your furs underneath your cheek and palms. Mother sewing and father making new arrows. " Cole says. "You feel lonely."

"Yes. I do." Lavellan replies, "But I have the rest of you and I'd be lonely if you guys were gone, too."

Cole peers at her from underneath his bangs, tilting his head a little.

"Yes, that's right. You have everyone else, now. Warm. Very happy. Loud, pleasant loud. Fills up your head and your chest and buzzes with warmth. Never alone, not for long."

"There's you, too, Cole. You're part of that everyone." Lavellan says.

Cole blinks. "Me?"

"You make me happy, Cole. Just by being here." Lavellan says, reaching over and squeezing Cole's hand. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us."

Cole smiles. "Me too. I like being here. You're all very nice. You let me help people. I've helped so many people with you. You make people happy. You help me make people happy."

-

Lavellan hisses at a burst blister on her palm. Then promptly smacks it into the ground, earning a horrified gasp from Dorian.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Packing it with dirt so it heals." Lavellan says, glaring at her hand. "Remind me never to let the Chargers talk me into another attempt at getting into fighting shape. It hurts."

Dorian stares at her before grabbing her hand, "That is _not how you treat a wound_."

"It's how I do it." Lavellan mutters. "And it works."

"I'm amazed you haven't died of infection yet."

"If a dragon can't kill me this wont." Lavellan protests as Dorian attempts to clean dirt out of the raw skin, making soft noises of disgust.

"Not for a lack of trying, dear." Dorian says, "Don't think I didn't notice you're missing about an inch of hair. Vivienne was very clever in making it work for you but really? Dragons. And you didn't even bring _me_ along. No, instead you brought the Seeker – "

"She comes from a line of dragon slayers. I thought she'd have _experience_."

"That _qunari spy_ – "

"He seemed very excited about it – "

"And _Solas_."

"We were gathering herbs. The rest of you make fun of me when I gather herbs."

"That's because you stop in the middle of a trip and go frolicking in the middle of a field of grass for about an hour without warning. It's rather charming in an odd way."

"Besides, it was all very messy and I needed a very, very long bath afterwards." Lavellan says, "And I mostly ran into it by accident. I didn't _know_ it would be there. I just knew that there were reports of one being sighted in that area."

"You will bring me along next time." Dorian presses, "At the very least I can attempt to save you from getting your pretty face destroyed by a blast of fire or acid or lightning or what-have you. And you can make sure mine doesn't get damaged as well. That's what friendship is. Not letting a giant fire-breathing monstrosity melt someone's face off. Or at least melting with them so you both look absolutely wretched."

Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "Alright, but I don't think I'll be running into anymore dragons anytime soon. Also it wasn't very fun because afterwards Bull took me drinking and I can't remember what happened for about ten hours after that. Bull says that I didn't do anything and that I was relatively safe but I'm not sure."

"That is also why you bring friends along. Friends don't let friends make terrible drunk decisions." Dorian says, pinching her cheek. "And stop packing your blisters with dirt. If you got an infection and lost a limb someone, possibly me, might have a fit."

-

"I can't decide of Cassandra is your official protector or Bull and his chargers are." Sera says, as they lazily lounge half-out a window, eating shelled nuts, watching the people of Skyhold go about their business.

"I don't have a protector. I can protect myself." Lavellan says. "I'm the First of my clan and everything."

"I mean – Bull is your bodyguard and the Chargers work for you, not the Inquisition. And miss priss is either watching you like a hawk or bear or somethin'."

"I was originally a prisoner of sorts, so maybe she just wants to make sure I don't run."

"Either way, I'm pretty sure they're both fighting over permanent custody. Or joint custody. I dunno, do you ever get whiplash? I mean. Bull's just _argh_ and _yeaaaaah_ and _fuck_. And Cassandra is all _no_ and _hiss_ and _not on my watch_."

"That's not true. Cassandra lets me do things all the time."

"While spying on you."

"And Bull doesn't always encourage me to do everything."

"Sure he doesn't." Sera rolls her eyes. "Either way you have not just one but _two_ mostly annoying and somewhat entertaining weirdos looking over your shoulder at every turn and I'm not quite certain how you haven't gone insane."

"Well I have you to balance them out." Lavellan points out, "You keep me rather sane, I should think. You're the only one around my age after all."

Sera and Lavellan exchange high fives.

"Best." Sera preens, "Damn straight."

"Just don't tell Dorian." Lavellan says, "He'd be severely disappointed."

"I won't tell him while you're around but that's the best I can do for you." Sera says, "And I could probably give you a head start or somethin' like that."

"Best." Lavellan repeats, "Do you think the Chargers are done with their hang-over yet?"

"Nah, give'm another hour." Sera says, "Or you know what – don't give them the hour. Let's go. Krem owes me money."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That poses something of a problem, then." Lavellan folds her hands in her lap. "As I do not seem to be capable of standing from this very comfortable stone."

**-**

They've found a Dalish clan out towards the west of the Exalted Plains. Most of the elves are wary around The Iron Bull, and are mostly stand-offish towards Cassandra and himself.

Lavellan seems practically ecstatic to be among her own people again. Dorian supposes he can't blame her. It is – _very_ different. Lavellan seems very happy to be able to talk in her language, help her people. Play with the halla.

If it weren't for the new armor the Seeker made Lavellan wear – shiny, glittering plates and beautifully cut cloth that is much more protective than her old coat. Though Dorian is fairly sure that Lavellan's kept the old coat around somewhere, waiting for the Seeker to turn away so she can put it back on. He's also certain that she's going to come to him for help in getting her out of that glittering and absolutely deadly looking ensemble.

(" _There are too many buckles, Dorian."_ Lavellan whines, "And look! It glitters! Assassins will see me at a hundred paces."

"Darling, the Seeker knows that. It only glitters at certain angles. And if they see you, you'll see them. Or at least, _she_ will.")

\- she would blend in with them perfectly.

"We have been here too long." Cassandra says in a low voice, moving to stand next to him as they watch Lavellan help patch holes in aravel roofs.

"I know." Dorian says. The threat of the undead is still there and the area is crawling with Freemen.

"She is – ." Cassandra pauses, clearly thinking her words over. "She is the Herald. She has to remember this. Right now, before she is an elf, before she is a member of the Dalish, she is the leader of the Inquisition. She is not a child to be scolded and sent on errands for a clan. She has authority, she must act like it."

"It can't hurt for her to be nice to people. And she's stopped to run errands for loads of people before. Humans." Dorian says, "And these are _her_ people. In specific."

"I know." The Seeker's mouth turns downwards. "But it is one thing to be nice. It is another to submit."

"And you think she is submitting?" Dorian raises an eyebrow.

"I think," The Seeker says, mouth tightening as Lavellan and the Keeper speak to each other in quiet tones, "That she is deferring power where she shouldn't. I think that she forgets that she is equal to the Keeper, to any of her elders, now. It does not look good if the Inquisitor bows to the scolding of other elves. It makes her look weak. People will judge her, judge us, for this."

"As if people would know."

Cassandra turns to Dorian. "People always find out. People will always know. It is not a question of _if_ , it is just a question of _when_ and _who_. If our people spread the word first, it will be the Inquisitor being respectful towards the old ways. If _others_ get word first, it will be the Inquisition being puppets and tools of the knife-ears."

-

"There's blood in your hair." Josephine says, unsure if she wants to laugh or be disgusted as the Inquisitor wrinkles her nose.

"Yes." Lavellan says. "There is."

"You need a bath." Josephine adds on.

"Yes. I suppose I do." Lavellan continues to sit on the floor just by the opening to Josephine's balcony.

"There is a very large hole at the bottom of your boot."

Lavellan blinks, looks at her outstretched legs.

"Your left one."

"Oh." Lavellan pulls her foot up to look. "Oh."

"You have a judgment in half an hour." Josephine continues. "And a war council meeting after that."

"That poses something of a problem, then." Lavellan folds her hands in her lap. "As I do not seem to be capable of standing from this very comfortable stone."

Josephine laughs, "The good thing about being in power, my friend, is that you can re-arrange your schedule."

"That's delightful because I am also very, very hungry, and I'm terrified of going to the kitchens myself because the last time I did four pots got knocked over and I ended up carrying an entire basket worth of food while I got scolded for looking like a starving child."

-

"Shems are _weird_." Lavellan hiccups at Dalish, "I don't know – I don't know how you stand it sometimes."

"You get used to it." Dalish says, pounding Lavellan on her back, "Careful there. You're getting better at this drinking thing."

"You think?"

"Certainly." Dalish pours her another tankard, "Not quite there yet, but getting there. Your first time among the shems, da'len?"

"Yes. By myself, I mean." Lavellan says, "I've gone to market a few times with some of the other clan members. This was my first time going alone. I wasn't actually supposed to _talk_ with any of them. Just sneak in, watch and listen."

Dalish snorts, "Girl, they would have noticed you as soon as you stepped foot in there. You aren't sneaky."

"I can be if I try." Lavellan mutters, forlornly staring into her mug, wrinkling her nose at the smell of ale. "I just haven't tried yet."

"Of course." Dalish says, rubbing her back, "That's why you're hiding here rather than let the ambassador drill you in Orlseian politics."

"It's very, _very difficult_." Lavellan says, "And they all sounds the same. By the Dread Wolf, these _shems_ and their _bloodlines_ and all of this – this politics!"

Dalish laughs, "Is it that much different? Think of it this way, Herald, you got your Keeper and your First and Second and the _competition_."

"Oh. Yes." Lavellan blinks, "Well when you put it _that way_. While you're clearing things up for me, would you mind explaining – "

At that moment the both of them let out small shrieks when arms come through the window behind them and yank them backwards -

"I found the elves!" Stitches sys, "Drinkin' without us in a corner."

"I am so _hurt_." Sera says, "Did I miss out on lady bonding times?"

-


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas thinks he can somewhat track the change.

**-**

There are times when this _sharp_ and _feral_ look appears on her face. It takes the normally smooth and serene lines of her nose and her mouth, the gentle and faint lines of her vallaslin and turns them into something wild, untamed, something that matches the rumors of the wild children of the Dalish.

Solas thinks he can somewhat track the change.

There is something _huntress_ in her. Something that senses weakness, guides her words into luring enemies – and sometimes, even friends – into traps of words and gestures, before she circles in for the final blow and closes in to finish. Her face curls into something rueful, always, first. Then it gradually sharpens, before finally turning into the sharp and bladed image she ends with.

She is capable of cruelty. Solas has never doubted that. All things are.

But he thinks that her cruelty is softer, and all the more stronger for that. Sheathed in velvet rather than steel and wood.

 _Unexpected_. Carefully used.

It is very curious. Somewhat unsettling. But it makes him feel – more comfortable around her. In an odd way. He thinks that he felt uncertain, uncomfortable, around her when she was gentle. When he only saw her as young flowers and misinterpreted elvhen tales, and kittens in the barn loft.

But when he sees her at the Skyhold throne at judgement, wiry limbs folded and eyes sharp, when he sees her jumping down, magic and gravity bearing her down with fire and lightning on her enemies, sometimes even when she says a certain word in a certain way – he sees the danger. And that is – _right_.

She burns too brilliantly not to hurt. This makes her tangible. Understandable. It makes her – it makes her predictable in the way people must be.

Lavellan can hurt. She will hurt. It is in her.

He – this, they – did not _turn her into it_.

And that is something -

Incredibly important for him to know.

(They did not make her into this. They did not unleash this.)

-

"I like the mask." Lavellan says, tilting her head like a bird as she examines herself in the vanity mirror. "It looks pretty, doesn't it look pretty?"

"You look lovey, dear." Vivienne says, "It suits you well. And it fits your features perfectly. As if it were made for you."

"You think?" Lavellan hums, and Vivienne puts her hands on the girl's shoulders to keep her from fidgeting.

"Let me finish arranging your hair, first. Then you can show everyone just how beautiful you look."

Lavellan hums. "I feel like half of the people I know will end up laughing at me."

"They laugh to cover up how stunned they are." Vivienne says, humming as she runs her fingers through Lavellan's hair. "Half the ladies of court would be incredibly jealous of your hair, darling. Have you ever thought of growing it out?"

"Why would they be jealous? It's just hair." Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "That's very peculiar. Most people have hair. Solas doesn't, but I'm not sure if that's by choice or not. It seems insensitive to ask."

Vivienne clicks her tongue. "I do wonder how you managed to navigate the Game so well, Inquisitor. You are a puzzle and I think a great many people are just _aching_ to get a chance at solving you. There, done. Now if only we could get you into something much more stylish than these drab tunics and leggings – "

"I like them. They're easy to move in." Lavellan protests -

"A beautiful mask deserves beautiful clothes. I should call my tailor here."

Lavellan freezes, "Please don't make me change my shoes. I just got used to these ones."

"A challenge for another time, I suppose. No do go run off and show everyone how stunning you can be when you put in some effort. Dorian especially, I feel like he'd appreciate this much more than anyone else. I am going to make a few arrangements."

-

"I think Lavellan has a crush." Sera says, dropping down next to Krem, shoving Grim out of the way, planting her forearms on the table. "This is something of a problem because she acts like a skittish deer about it and she's already terrifyingly – you know – _elfy_ without the added bonus of loping away at the sign of whoever it is she likes approaching."

"You sure it's a crush and not – I don't know, a desperate need to use the privy or her running from the Seeker?" Krem asks, sighing as he realizes that his peaceful lunch is going to inevitably be tossed out the window in favor of trying to figure out the Inquisitor's possible love problems.

"Nah, she doesn't blush when that happens." Sera waves a hand, reaching over to snag half a roll from Rocky who only makes half an attempt to get it back. "She turns pink before prancing off like a terrified doe. S'kind of cute in a woodland animal way."

Krem sighs and rubs his knuckles on his temple.

"You're going to make the poor girl's life hell to figure this out, aren't you?"

"Only if she makes it hard." Sera says, "Besides, it's good for her to get teased. Everyone should get poked a little bit. Keeps them level, yeah?"

Krem closes his eyes. "This is going to be fucking awful."

"Don't be such a kill-joy, Krem. It's young love."

-

"No one told me that Hawke was _pretty_." Lavellan whispers, snagging Varric as soon as she can. "You didn't tell me Hawke was pretty."

"I dunno, I did kind of write an entire book about Hawke that you _read_ – "

"Your book fails to describe Hawke as pretty. I was _unprepared_ , Varric. I almost made a fool of myself in front of the _Champion of Kirkwall_." Lavellan groans into her hands. "Oh, Mythal, Hawke must think I'm a silly little girl."

"You are a silly little girl, Poppy. A silly little girl who's negotiated peace in Orlais, sealed a hole in the sky, and killed a few dragons." Varric says, squeezing Lavellan's elbow.

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"Trust me, if Hawke didn't like you, you'd _know_."

"Hawke probably thinks I'm – I'm amusing. Or terribly pathetic in a newborn kitten way." Lavellan moans. "I must look so foolish compared to Hawke."

"I don't think it's fair to compare your situations, Poppy." Varric says, "I mean, yeah, Hawke kind of is the Champion of Kirkwall, but Hawke never had to lead an entire military group against an unknown threat to the _world_ before."

"But everyone's been looking for Hawke and the Hero of Ferelden to lead and – "

"And we have you, and we're doing just fine." Varric says, "End of story."

-

She comes for him, in Val Royeaux prison, glittering and young and quiet.

She's wearing the mask she was given at the Winter Palace. He doesn't know why she's wearing it. Everyone knows the Inquisitor regardless of whether her face is covered.

There is no one else in the world who's armor looks like that, and glitters so sharply.

She appears before him like Andraste herself, standing before the bars and the dim light making the golden scales on her armor glitter like stars. She stands there without judgment and lets him yell at her with all the dark vitrol he has at his disposal.

He wishes that she never knew. She has made him a better man. Blackwall thinks that if she never found him, he would – yes. He would still be the coward hiding under the name of another man. His people would still fall for him.

"You are still my friend." Lavellan says, fingertips resting on the metal. "You are not the man you think you are."

She leaves him there, and he should have known better than to think she would leave this. That she would let him do the right thing.

"You used your underworld contacts to get me." Blackwall says. He's angry. So angry because she should have let him fall. She should have let him. But _no_.

Instead she tarnishes the Inquisition, dirtying it's cause and using its resources to drag his filth into their ranks. He is -

 _So angry_. So angry that she would do this to the Inquisition. That she would abuse her power, allow others to _have valid reason_ to scrutinize the Inquisition because of him.

Lavellan looks straight into him -

"You are my _friend, Blackwall._ " She rises and comes down from the throne of Skyhold to touch her palms to the sides of his face. "Lethallin. You put your faith in me. I choose to put mine in yours. You are not the man you think you are."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For what it is worth, I am sorry that this happened to your clan. And that it was not your fault."

**-**

"You were raised to be the Keeper of your clan, yes?" Solas asks her as she watches him paint, legs kicking from where she's perched at the top of the scaffolding, like a curious cat or a particularly silent bird.

"Yes. I was our clan's First." Lavellan says, "But the point is moot because my clan is scattered." She shrugs, "So I am First of nothing, and the Inquisition is all I will ever lead."

Solas turns to look at her. There's no remorse or grief on her face, just the quiet acceptance she has always shown everything.

"For what it is worth, I am sorry that this happened to your clan. And that it was not your fault."

"I know. I thank you, hahren." Lavellan says, "The Keeper would not want me to grieve when there is so much to do. I suppose later I will go back and. Try. But for now there is no time to think on it."

"You are a very brave girl, Lavellan." Solas turns to her, "But it is alright, even appropriate, to take a pause to grieve."

Lavellan lowers her head.

"Hahren, do you think anyone would bury them?" She whispers, pulling her knees to her chest. "How will they be guided to the dead? Who will give them their staves? Who will plant their trees? What about the halla, hahren? What will happen to the halla?"

Solas turns to her and holds his hands out to her. She clambers down the ladder and carefully puts her hands in his. He squeezes her fingers, "Lavellan, if you wish, you can ask to go or send people. You have the power to do so. No one will find fault in you for doing so."

"It seems like – it seems like a distraction." Lavellan whispers, "This does nothing for the Inquisition – "

"You have used your power to help us all." Solas says, "You have helped me among many others. Trust me, da'len, no one would find fault with you if you wished to do this. Come, we shall go speak with your advisors."

-

Bull is awake the second the door opens – not Krem, not any of the other Chargers, so no trouble there, not an assassin, not the right kind of tread, this footstep is quiet. Kind of like Dalish. Quiet, careful. Like someone used to walking barefoot on forest terrain. Cautious and it would be silent, but whoever it is isn't used to wearing shoes and walking on stone. So there's a soft rustle. Worn shoes, leather. Not a hard sound. – and tensing, ready to act.

Not a threat, but he's not sure who it is either -

The door shuts slowly, quietly behind whoever it is. Someone who's been here before because the door is a little lopsided and scrapes against the floor if you don't lift it a little.

Bull waits, someone quiet. Their breathing is soft – someone a little stressed, maybe, because there's a slight hitch to their breathing, too -

"Bull?"

"Boss." Bull rolls over, can barely see her in the light from his windows. "You alright?"

"I – " Lavellan shifts back, "I just. I just wanted to make sure you were here."

She hasn't been sleeping well. Sera said she's been having nightmares since Adamant. Bull isn't sure what she saw but he knows it rattled her. He's heard the rumors and the Vint hasn't shut up about the amazing experience ever since.

It isn't that it wasn't Andraste, he knows she never believed that story. It was something she saw – something she heard -

Lavellan's been crashing with Sera, who doesn't sleep so much as she naps in bursts, and alternatively sitting up with Solas. Bull's not actually sure if Solas sleeps.

"Yeah, I'm here, Boss." Bull says, holding his hand out to her. Lavellan's fingers are light, almost ticklish as she traces over his palm. "You're freezing, Boss. How long've you been up?"

"A while." She says after a moment.

"You need to sleep." Bull says, "You'll go crazy if you don't."

"Maybe I already am." Lavellan mutters, she slowly kneels next to his bed, resting her forehead on the edge of it. Her fingers curl in his palm. "You're the strongest, right, Bull? You'll stay, right? I mean – you aren't going to leave, are you? Even though this is all very peculiar and everything's gone sideways?"

"I'm here, Boss." Bull sits up a little, resting his other hand on her head. She's so small and young, and he tries to imagine the life she could've had if this never happened. He tries to imagine her back with her clan in the woods, somewhere. Maybe settling down with another elf or not, with her halla and nature and shit. "I'm not going anywhere. None of us are going anywhere, we're with you."

"And – and you're not going to – you're not going to die, right?"

What the fuck _did_ she see there? This is worse than what she was like after she saw the future with Dorian.

"Not planning on it anytime soon, Boss. You know me. Stubborn as shit. I ain't going down until I'm good and ready."

Lavellan takes in a slow, deep breath. He wonders where and when she got that kind of control. Most people would be in hysterics right about now. Most people would break. She hasn't even bent.

"Come on, kid." Bull gently pulls her onto the bed, and she curls up against his side, "Time for a nap. Even spies sleep, you know? Consider yourself lucky. I don't normally sleep with people."

Lavellan snorts a laugh.

"I mean it, Boss, only a special sort of person gets to say that they woke up in my arms."

"I'm glad you're here, The Iron Bull." Lavellan whispers. He can feel her breathing, and the pitter-patter of her little heart in her thin bones against his skin. She's so small. Like a child. Delicate.

Bull waits for her breathing to even out.

"Tell the Spymaster that she's safe with me." Bull says, careful not to wake the elf up. "She'll be okay."

-

"Did I do the right thing, Dorian?" Lavellan asks, curled up next to a stack of books he's put aside for study. She idly turns one of the volumes over in her hands. "I  -  Stroud was the right call, right? I mean. He is a Warden. We need him to lead. But Hawke – and Varric is so upset and – "

Dorian reaches down to rest his hand on her head. He thinks that this is what having a little sister would be like. Or best friend.

"It does no one any good to dwell on it." He brushes some hair from her face, running a thumb over her forehead. "We are at war, darling. There is no right answer, no wrong answer. Only the one which best serves us. The one that keeps us alive and kicking."

Lavellan's mouth is pinched and narrow. "Varric is so sad. He was – he was writing letters – "

"We all lose things in war." Dorian crouches next to her. "What is important is that you make sure that Hawke's sacrifice was worth it. Hawke and the Divine didn't die so you could grieve them. They died so you could live to fight for the ones they left behind."

Lavellan's eyes are sharp, like cat's eyes and glass when she looks at him.

"But _was_ it the decision that would help us most?" She whispers, "Hawke could have just as easily led the Wardens as  Stroud. Hawke is _the Champion_."

"We'll never know." Dorian says, cupping her cheek. "And it only makes us ill and dreadfully depressing to think on it. Chin up, darling. There's work to be done and rifts to seal, ancient Tevinter magisters to face and politics to be dealt with." He nudges her chin with his knuckle. Her lips twitch upwards and he grins at her. "Smile. There's my girl. You look much lovelier when you smile, you know. A woman after my own heart."

"Thank you, Dorian."

"Anytime, love."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are a gift." Dorian says, not looking up.

**-**

"It doesn't feel like it's _mine_ , hahren." She says, embarrassed and scuffing the heel of her new boots – the last pair was hopelessly ruined when she quite literally ran them into the ground – on the clean stone of her quarters. "It feels very large and fancy. Very _shem_. Like I'm – I'm borrowing it and just waiting for its' real owner to come back, and then they'll yell at me for making the place dirty."

"Understandable." Solas says, staring at a figure of a wooden halla that he vaguely recognizes from the Winter Palace on the tidy desk. How in the world did she smuggle it back? Or did Blackwall make it for her? No, he made the mabari on the shelf, that is certainly Blackwall's work. "Though I see there was some attempt to make you feel at home?"

There is a lute in a corner. And what he thinks is supposed to be some sort of elven decoration. Inspired by elven tradition, maybe. Solas isn't exactly certain and he doesn't feel like inspecting it to find out.

Mostly he is attempting to ignore the large and ornate piece of furniture they call a bed, but perhaps could be a small boat in the center of the room.

"I suppose. But I don't understand how the windows are Dalish." She wrinkles her nose. "We don't _have_ windows?"

Solas spares a glance at the stained glass. They vaguely remind him of tree branches. "Hm. An attempt was made, though I did not say it was a success." His lips twitch upwards. "But they are _your_ quarters, da'len. You could – " He waves a hand, "Live in them."

Solas cannot imagine this room as Lavellan's. No song of trees or soil, no golden sunlight and the absolute silence of the sky. Ornate and very beautiful, yes, but not exactly what he thinks of when he thinks of their young Herald.

"They don't feel right." She says, "Look." She points up towards the mural on the upper level of her rooms. "I have _two_ levels! And a closet. With barrels." Lavellan looks faintly puzzled before turning indignant. "What do I need this for? Shouldn't this be Cullen's room? Or Vivienne's? They're rather important people. I feel like they could use these rooms better. I like where Vivienne is. Her room is nice."

"Madame de Fer does not have a room." She has an area that has been unspokenly declared hers, that looks over the rest of Skyhold.

"It's a very nice living space. Very open. And full of noise." Lavellan says, crossing her arms. "You can't hear _anything_ from here."

Solas raises an eyebrow. "Some would cherish the silence."

"Well. I'm not _some_ people."  Lavellan declares. "I don't like it."

"You could ask to switch."

"I did. Vivienne laughed and said no." Solas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, she laughed, said no, and lectured me on appearances for half an hour before Cole showed up to rescue me when my eyes felt like they were going to go cross." She flushes. "And Cullen just stared at me with that _look_. You know – he really reminds me of some of the older hunters back home – but. _Alright._ Hahren, you're giving me the _same_ look. Do all older men learn that look? Is that a thing? Oh, but sometimes Josephine and Vivienne give me that look, too! Is it something all hahren learn?"

Solas smiles. "Da'len."

"Yes?"

"Accept that you are now the leader of a large organization. You've made your bed, to use the human phrase, now lie in it." He makes a gesture towards the large, velvet and silk and gold structure behind them.

Lavellan looks horrified.

"But Solas." She whispers, fingers knotting underneath her chin as she stares at it. " _I don't think I'd be able to climb my way back out._ "

-

"Well, of course she's going to get sick if you take her out in the middle of the storm to stomp around the bogs and fight undead corpses." Varric raises an eyebrow, "What exactly, were you expecting? You even said she fell in. Twice."

"I didn't expect _this_." Sera says, "I might have just killed the Herald of Andraste on accident."

Varric snorts.

"It's not _funny_ , Varric, someone is going to assassinate me for it."

"Not if you drink yourself to a grave first." Bull tugs the tankard out of her hands. "Enough for you. If you kick it Krem will lose his new best friend."

"What?" Krem grunts, half-asleep and draped over a barrel.

Sera snorts.

"Go sit with her." Varric says, "If you feel that guilty. You're bringing the mood of the tavern down."

"There is no one here but you, Bull, and me. Krem doesn't count 'cos he's clearly not with us." Sera says. "And we all know Bull can just. Like. Stare off into the distance for hours thinking spy-things."

"I do not think of spy-things." Bull protests. "I think of a lot of other things, too. And get propositioned."

"Whatever."

"Go sit with her." Varric says. "Talk at her. Apologize if you want to. She's so out of it she won't even know if you mess up. She can't even tell what's up and what's down. You should've seen her when Chuckles went in to check on her."

-

Sometimes Lavellan comes in and sits with him. She just quietly sits down across from him, on the floor because the girl is allergic to chairs, folds up like a little bit of paper art – the kinds that the spymaster sometimes makes – and pulls out one of the books from his piles and reads. He isn't sure if she ever finishes any of them or even understands half of it, because most of the books he's been setting aside are on extremely dense material and even _he_ doesn't understand half of them without referencing their footnotes and appendixes.

She's quiet, though. Sometimes she moves, stretching, or tilting her head back, eyes closed as she rests them. Sometimes she gets up, leaning her chin on the slanted windowsill, staring out into the sky. Occasionally she sighs, closing the book, finger holding her place, and just looks off into the distance before returning to reading.

It is nice. Companionable. Different from how they usually are.

Dorian likes it. He is – the entire situation is absolutely ridiculous. He's the son of a magister, a Tevinter noble, and she's a Dalish elf from the backwaters of Ferelden.

They're both part of an organization that's set out to save the world from red lyrium, giant holes in the sky, and ancient Tevinter would-be-gods.

But this is nice.

It is almost enough to make him glad for the things that happened. That he could come here and meet people like her and Vivienne and Varric. Of course some of the people are – _unsavory_ – but he thinks that the experience is balancing itself out well enough.

"You are a gift." Dorian says, not looking up.

"So are you." She says, without hesitation or pause, eyes still closed as she leans against a stack of books on magical theory he was going through.

Dorian smiles and shakes his head.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She's so energetic." Varric says, "Like a squirrel."

**-**

"I don't think I've heard of this game." Lavellan says, "It seems rather peculiar."

"It's fun." Sera says, "We've got the space for it an' everything. It'll be great."

"Okay, if you say so." Lavellan still sounds uncertain, but bounces on her heels a bit. Her breath fogs in the air and she folds her hands underneath her arms, shivering a little. "So you just – shape the snow into a ball?"

"A snowball, yeah."

"And throw it."

"You aim it at someone and _then_ throw it."

"That seems rather mean."

"Only if you put a rock or some shit in the ball before throwing it." Sera says, "It's fun. Come on, join me. Watch, like this, yeah?"

Sera kneels down, scooping snow up into her gloved hands, making a compact ball and flinging it at Rocky who grunts in surprise, turning to shake his fist at her.

"Pathetic excuse of a mercenary." Sera shakes her head, "Can't even dodge a snowball."

Lavellan laughs, kneeling down and clumsily making a ball of her own. "It never snowed this much where I'm from. Not like this. It's so _cold!_ "

"That's generally what winter's about." Sera says, "Cold, hot drinks, everything bein' wet and gross – except when it's, _you know_ , the other kind of wet and _yum_ – and everything being dark because the days are shorter and shite. Make it tighter or it'll fall apart mid-air."

"Okay. Like this?"

"Yeah, you got it. Now pick a target and throw. Though I'm worried your skinny stick arms won't be able to do it."

"I throw things all the time!" Lavellan protests, looking around the courtyard of Skyhold. "And I even hit what I meant to hit sometimes, too!"

"Not inspiring much confidence, here." Sera snorts. "I'm glad you could come outside, though."

"Me, too. Dorian and The Iron Bull won't come out no matter how much I ask – they say it's too cold and no one should be outside, but it looks so fun! And I was too nervous to ask Vivienne or Solas to come play. I think Cole's gone off to do something with eggplants." Lavellan pauses, "Blackwall doesn't seem like he ever plays. I'm glad you're here, Sera, I don't think I'd get to do anything fun if you weren't."

-

"Look, hahren! Fish! They're so pretty, like little silver pieces." Lavellan says, splashing into the water, excitedly chasing fish around the shallows of the lake. "Are these the kind you can eat, hahren? It's so _odd_ here!"

"I will never get sand out of my armor." Cassandra mutters as she jerks at the straps of her armor, glaring at the dusty desert floor. "Or my mouth."

Solas calls Lavellan back, "We have to check on your burn, Inquisitor, come back."

"In a minute." She says, zipping off to try one of the scraggily trees that's managed to grow in the oasis.

"She's so energetic." Varric says, "Like a squirrel."

"She's excited to go to places she's never seen." Solas says, "I imagine one doesn't find many deserts in Ferelden."

"I also imagine that there's a reason the Dalish don't go to these blasted sand pits." Varric says, "Seeing as you burn like nothing else."

He imagines that Solas bristles.

"Not _all_ elves are fair skinned." He points out, "I am simply used to northern climates."

"Yeah, sure, whatever lets you sleep at night, Chuckles." Varric watches the Inquisitor jump out of the tree to scramble up some rocks out of the corner of his eye. She's going to be covered in red-orange dust later. He really does feel sorry for whoever is in charge of cleaning the Inquisitor's clothing. "Hey, get down from there before you break something, kid. These rocks aren't the climbing kind. They're too brittle."

-

"One would think you're scared of being seen, Seeker." Varric says when he catches Cassandra coming down from the Inquisitor's quarters. "What's the matter? Don't want to be seen caring?"

"Shut it, dwarf." She snaps, high spots of color on her cheeks. "Of course I care. She is our leader. I simply went to check on her and see if her fever has broken." Her mouth turns downwards and she looks to the side, "She keeps calling for her hahren."

The Inquisitor took the loss of her clan – with grace. In public view. In _private_ however -

"Solas is with her." Varric says, "Isn't he?"

(The girl who came out of the Fade – she is Dalish. She spends hours with Solas, asking question after question with an open face and a tilted head. She calls him _hahren_ and he sometimes smiles when he calls her _da'len_. They practice magic and he guides her through words lost for ages.)

"Yes. He has been a comfort to her. Dalish has gone to see her many times, as well." Cassandra leans against the stair's guard railing. "Cole says she has been having nightmares. I am concerned. It was not her fault. She should know this. She made a reasonable decision to defend her family. No one could have known it would go wrong."

"That's logic." Varric waves a hand, "The heart isn't so good at listening to that."

"I know." Cassandra shakes her head. "That's what makes it so hard."

-

"Hahren?" Lavellan croaks out – but it's wrong. The hahren are gone, the Keeper is gone too – all the halla, everyone gone. Never again, _gone_ -

"Yes, da'len." It's Solas, because Solas is the only one here who knows the word, who can use it right. He speaks it better than the Keeper sometimes and she wishes she could speak as well as he does. She hopes he will teach her more – the Keeper will never teach again, _Keeper, I am the Keeper of None_   - "You are very sick, Lavellan."

Only Lavellan left -

"Hurting, raw on the inside. So hot, thoughts chase thoughts in endless circles that come back to the deep hurt. So deep it may never come out – the Keeper's wise face, her proud face as I open my eyes to look at the finished vallaslin – I did so well – " Cole, that's Cole – "Yes, it's me. I'm here for you. You'll be alright. Solas knows how to help you. We love you just as much as your Keeper and clan did."

Lavellan's throat hurts and feels dry and her lips feel like they've cracked like stone. Cole's hand is cool in hers and she can feel the faint prickle of magic on his skin. Something other.

"It hurts."

"I know, da'len. Your fever is very high."

"No – hurts here." Lavellan tries to lift her hand to touch her chest, but can't. Her body feels heavy and sluggish. Her vision blurs when she opens her eyes.

"We can help that, too." Cole says, she can feel his hand over hers. He must be next to her, but she can't feel anything else. Cole is like that. "Right, Solas?"

"In time." Solas replies, "Sleep and dream of nothing, da'len. Rest."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan smiles, shaking her head, "Just thinking out loud, Commander."

**-**

Sometimes when she looks at him she remembers that he is everything that she has been taught to fear and avoid. He is – was – a templar, and he is a shem, and he is a man. He is dangerous. But that isn't fair to him, because she knows how hard he works and how much he struggles. How sad the same things she was taught to guard against have made him.

Lavellan knows that he is a dangerous man but he is her Commander, her sword and shield, and he smiles at her like the older hunters did when they kissed her brow before long trips and told her stories by the fire under the stars and braided her hair in the mornings. Lavellan thinks that it is good advice, the advice her Keeper gave her -

 _Be wary of shemlens, da'len, especially men. They are quick with words and actions and history has never been kind to those who decided to trust the possibility of goodness_.

It is different. She thinks that he is different.

The Commander will not hurt her. He is a good man. She is surrounded in good people.

He is her friend and Lavellan is honored to have him at her side, to guide her. She is no military strategist and she has never been to war. She doesn't know battles or tactics or soldiers. She does not know the endless reports and duties he must attend to. So she is grateful to have him with her.

Cullen is just like any other elder when he sits with her to talk and points out spots on the map. He is patient with her and explains things easily. He makes time for her when she has questions, about the Inquisition or himself or anything else she doesn't understand.

"I am glad to have met you." She says to him, once, as she waits for him to finish reading reports.

If she did not meet Cullen, if she did not join this Inquisition, if she was not at the Conclave – She does not think she would have ever made such good friends. She would have never known that there were good shemlen – not just in theory, but in reality. She knows for sure, now. That there is at least one good templar, one good shemlen, in Cullen.

(And there is Blackwall and there is Dorian and there are _so many_ amazing people from so many places she has met and come to know – )

Cullen hums, pauses and looks up from the report he hands off to a scout – "Pardon? I am sorry – I was focused, did you say something?"

Lavellan smiles, shaking her head, "Just thinking out loud, Commander."

-

She runs her hands through small piles of wood shavings, curling the thin strips around her fingers and holding them up to the sunlight to see through them.

Lavellan sits back, leaning against the Blackwall's work table's leg. She can hear the soft sounds of horses in the stables, and if she leans to the side she can see the tip of her hart's nose and a bit of the shadow of his antlers.

"I hope you aren't hiding from anything, here, lass." Blackwall says, gently blowing some shavings and wood bits off of what he says is going to be a mabari. "I'd rather not have the Seeker or Ambassador breathing down my neck for harboring you when you should be doing more important things."

"Nothing is more important than spending time with my closest allies. The bonds between warriors is important. Everyone knows that." Lavellan replies, curling a particularly long wood shaving into a flower.

"I don't know if you've learned to be like that from our lady Ambassador or if you are simply becoming more sly." Blackwall sighs, running his thumb over a dip, leaning down to check the height of the rough figure. He hums. "Or perhaps that qunari is training you on the sly?"

"I don't think Bull could train anyone to be silver-tongued, Blackwall." Lavellan snickers, "Maybe Grim."

"Grim doesn't speak."

"Exactly."

-

"Couldn't Dorian do this?" Cullen says as Josephine repeats the steps for Lavellan, slowly and lifting her skirts to clearly show the steps. "I am sure he is much better at it than I."

"Yes, but it isn't the best idea to bring a Tevinter to the Winter Palace, now is it?" Josephine says, "Besides, two birds with one stone, yes? You can _both_ learn."

Cullen sighs, "No one is expecting _me_ to dance."

"Just in case."

They both glance towards Lavellan, who's standing off to the side, arms half-heartedly raised in the air as she hesitantly mutters counts under her breath.

"I feel as though you just wish to watch the two of us stumble." Cullen says, moving to take his place with her. She gives him a nervous smile as he puts his hand on her waist. "I do apologize if I step on you, my lady. No one seems willing to  listen to me when I say that I am not nearly at all suited for dancing."

"That's alright, Commander." Lavellan says, giving him a crooked smile, "I probably won't feel it because I think I've gone numb with nerves."

-

"And this is why you have to start wearing shirts." The voice sounds a lot like Pavus', and Bull opens his eye and grins -

"And deprive you of my awesome physique?" Bull rasps, a lingering ache in his bones and chest as he tries to sit up.

"Not for _me_ , you barbarian. For _her_." Dorian snaps, tilting his head towards Bull's other side. Bull turns his head and is surprised to see the Inquisitor curled up next to him. She's so light that he didn't even feel her. "She was terrified and stayed up all night."

And now Bull feels _guilty_. Shit.

"She told me," Dorian continues,, sounding like he's about to lay down the mother of all guilt trips, "That if you woke up before she did, to tell you that _you can't scare me like that again, you're supposed to be my bodyguard, this is utterly unacceptable and you aren't off the hook yet._ "

Bull raises an eyebrow.

"Not in those words." Dorian says, "Of course. There was some elven in there that I wasn't certain on. You gave her a fright, though. I hope you're happy with yourself. She was _exhausted_."

"It's not like I got a damn cold on purpose."

"Strutting around without a shirt seems like you are." Dorian says, crossing his arms, "Look, just be more careful, alright? She was _distressed_ and considering all the things that have happened lately it could be said that you made her – " Dorian waves a hand.

Bull drags a hand down his face and groans.

She's lost a lot of people in a short amount of time. _Vashedan_.

"It was just a cold."

"A cold that took down the strongest man she knows."

Bull isn't sure how he feels about this. The weight of her concern on his shoulders. But he supposes it can't be helped. He's attached to the kid and he supposes that she's attached, too. He turns a little on his side and rests a hand on her head.

She has a soft heart.

"Rest well, Boss." Bull says, closing his eyes and lying back as he feels sleep start to overtake him again.

-

Lavellan's legs stretch out underneath the table as she leans her head on her hands.

"Is this all you do, every day, Varric?" She asks, "It seems very tedious and I'm not sure why, but I imagined your life would be much more exciting."

"More exciting than helping fix a hole in the sky?" Varric asks, chuckling as he checks an invoice against his records. "Poppy, if my life got any more exciting I don't think my heart would be able to take the strain."

Lavellan laughs, taking a bit of scrap paper and carefully folding it into a paper flower like Leliana taught her.

"I just meant that I thought that there would be more – I don't know. It all just seemed so different from your stories. Now I'm imagining you writing a stern letter to one of your business partners in the middle of fighting off templars and rogue mages in Kirkwall."

Varric laughs, shaking his head. "Well, can't say you'd be wrong. Sometimes I'd dictate and have someone else write it down for me. Good way for Broody to practice his letters."

"Did you give everyone a nickname, Varric?"

"Only the ones I Iiked." Varric replies, rummaging around for his seal. "Makes things easier, you know? Easier to shout in the middle of a fire fight."

Which is true, it is rather difficult to yell _Blackwall_ or _Cassandra_ or _The Iron Bull_ when she's in the middle of being dragged underwater by undead in the middle of a storm.

"Are all your nicknames so accurate, Varric?"

"Usually. It's a gift, Poppy." He says, making a small noise of satisfaction as he seals an envelope. "Now, enough of this boring stuff. Time to get material for some books. What say you we go out and find some gossip?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She's too cold." Cullen says, trying to shield her from the wind with his body. "She's too damn cold."

**-**

Her fingers are so thin and white – shocking against the darkness of his cloak. Cullen gathers her close to him, terrified because they've just gotten on their feet, they've just had their first victory, they cannot lose her now. He cannot lose her, when he has just started to believe that they could turn this hobbled group into a titan of force.

They have argued so long over leadership – looking for the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall and anyone else who might rally the people to their names -, he finds it ironic that they realize that their true leader was here all along.

"She's too cold." Cullen says, trying to shield her from the wind with his body. "She's too damn cold."

Her mouth is pale and he can barely even see her marks on her skin, she's so pale. He lifts her out of the snow and turns around to trudge back towards camp. They are all knee deep in snow and it was slow going to even find her, Maker he doesn't know if they will make it back in time – he hopes they will, they _must_.

Cassandra flanks him, helping to break the wind with the shield on her back, "She will make it. She must. But for now we must hurry, Commander."

"I know. I know." Cullen says, and he wishes that he could give her more of his warmth. But he is still wearing his breast plate and the hours spent looking for her have already sucked any heat he had out of his outer layers. "Maker, I don't even know how she survived."

Maybe she _is_ the Herald of Andraste after all. Or damned lucky.

"We can ask her later." Cassandra says, yelling out orders for their men to clear as much of a way for them as possible.

"She should be _dead_." For all intents and purposes. They saw the dragon. They saw – that, that _thing_. They even saw her get buried by snow.

"She isn't."

"Maker." Cullen breathes, and his face tingles with cold. She is too young for this. Too young to save the world, but wasn't the Hero of Ferelden this young? Wasn't Hawke?

Maker, the heroes are always young for some reason.

Cullen's stomach lurches and he hopes, Maker he hopes, that she does not meet the same fates they did.

Lavellan is light and small in his arms and the fires of camp look so far away.

But she makes it. They make it.

It is too early for her story to end.

-

The first time Bull sees her, she's picking her way over wet – red blood and water and loudly crashing waves – stones and bleached driftwood. She is and isn't what he expected.

Yeah, he already knew she was a Dalish elf and a mage from the reports he got from the Ben-Hassrath. But reports kind of never fill in the other pieces.

For one thing, she's new to the whole wearing boots thing. That makes him want to laugh. She's like Dalish, then. Used to less wet climes, some sort of area where she could go around barefoot. A place she knew well enough that she wasn't afraid to step on something wrong. Northern Ferelden, he's going to guess. It's cold there, but not that wet. Pretty good forest ground. He's pretty sure that there are some Dalish clans wandering around up there, too.

They've got her in some sort of fancy looking armor. She's not used to that, either. He can tell by the way she moves. It's too heavy for her – at the moment, she'll grow into it, he's guessing. It's larger than she's used to. Lots of metal. Looks mostly ornamental but from the blood splatters on it he's guessing that it's good at taking some damage.

The staff is hers. She's familiar in the way she holds it. Made for her, he's guessing, judging from what wear he can see from here and the way she holds it. She might've made it herself. Looks nothing like the thing Dalish claims is a bow, but everyone knows isn't. But it's got that same quality. Real in a way weapons made from the same pattern aren't.

She speaks carefully. Uncertain and trying to sound brave and strong and steady. Admirable.

Bull likes her, she's got guts. She's trying to be as diplomatic as possible but she can't hide her wariness. Her suspicion. It's not even the whole he's bigger than her with horns and a giant fucking sword thing. That's a different sort of wariness.

She looks at him and her eyes focus on his eye, his missing fingers, and his scars and that makes her cautious. Then he opens his mouth and then she gets _really_ on edge.

He isn't like any Qunari she's ever met. If she's met any at all. Probably sets her off. Good instincts.

But she welcomes him anyway, and offers him a hesitant and nervous smile. He can almost taste her relief at all the important business being over.

Bull decides to cut her some slack and turn his back on her first.

"You're way too excited, Chief. You hate snow." Krem says as they're packing up. Bull ignores the grumbles of the other Chargers as they attempt to close the casks.

They shouldn't have fucking used the axes. That just goes to show them.

"It's a gut feeling, Krem." Bull replies, reaching down to heave a casket over his shoulder, "I think I signed us up for some shit. But it's going to be _awesome_."

-

Sometimes Lavellan dreams. She dreams she is there. With _them_.

Her hands are covered in blood that isn't hers. She almost wishes it was. She almost wishes she were a blood mage. Could she save them then?

The blood is rushing through her fingers and she wishes she could just – just _shove_ it back into the body it came from.

She can hear halla screaming and it scares her. It scares her like nothing else. She looks around for the Keeper, for the hahren, for the babies -

It is a wild blur of color. Fire in the darkness and the dark skeleton of trees and the crack and shudder of aravels falling into themselves. She sees silhouettes of people she knew as they fall and scream and run. They don't fight because there is no point. They do not fight because there is nothing to fight with. It is all burning.

She can smell it. Burning hair and fur and wood and – and _meat_.

Lavellan can't move, she is covered in bodies. It is not a grave.

It is a pyre.

They are not all dead.

She can't breathe.

She reaches up, and the anchor on her hand dims into nothingness, and she cannot see the light.

Halani, _halani_ she screams in her head. Because when she opens her mouth it fills with rotting flesh and fire and dirt. She cannot breathe.

A hand closes around hers and pulls her up, she wants to cry with relief.

The hand is Corypheus' and he digs his fingers _into the Anchor_. She screams, mouth tasting like ash, as she watches. She can't pull herself from his grasp. It feels like he is shattering every bone in her arm.

He says things she cannot understand through her screams and lets her go.

She falls back onto the bodies, and they give under her. They are soft and sweet smelling with rot, and she feels bone and flesh cave underneath her until she is buried in this mass of sweet-rotten decay.

Lavellan feels herself burning and she is afraid.

She looks up into the sky and there are no stars to guide her.

Around her there are no hands to help her.

She is alone.

Lavellan screams _halani, halani_ – I am not dead, I am not dead, not yet, I will not _die here_ -

Her arms feel shattered and the heat of decay makes her flesh feel like it has melted away, too. But she is afraid.  She is afraid to die here in this nameless, amorphous pit of memories. She has no anchor and she is alone but she will not die here, not like this.

She pushes herself up and refuses to give in when she sinks into the bodies like they are quicksand.

Lavellan screams and she calls fire to her hands because if she will burn she will do it herself -

"You fixed it yourself." Cole says, and her eyes fly open. The early light of morning shadows Cole's face and she can smell the cool air of the Hinterlands. A unique smell from magic and cold and grass. She can hear Blackwall and Dorian idly bickering over breakfast. Cole sits back as she sits up. "I was worried but you fixed it yourself. You took control and you were afraid but you were also angry and then you got up and I was still worried but more worried for whoever was on the other side."

Lavellan runs her hands through sweat-damp hair and gives him a tired smile.

"I would be, too."

"You're never that angry. Or that scared." Cole says, handing her a damp cloth. "Not when you're awake. If you were I don't think you'd need any of us."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not, isn't it?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's dealt with demons, abominations, torture, red lyrium, and entire cities falling about his ears. Why _not_ the sky, too?

**-**

Cullen is - he is _nervous_ about sending her into the field. Of course the Seeker is with her, and he does not deny that Varric has proven himself and admirable fighter. No one survives Kirkwall that well without growing some teeth, after all. And while he is not so certain about Solas, he knows that the man is old and he has traveled far to come to them. But _her_?

She grew up secluded in the wilderness. Fighting boars and perhaps the occasional group of bandits. Her life is one separated from the harshness of war. At least, a war on this scale.

Sometimes Cullen is glad for his - _history_. It makes things that should seem terrifying or dangerous seem like another normal day.

He's dealt with demons, abominations, torture, red lyrium, and entire cities falling about his ears. Why _not_ the sky, too?

He worries for their Herald.

He worries when he first hears that they will be sending her out to close rifts. He worries when the slow trickle of recruits grows. Maker help him, he still worries even when she comes back with an entire mercenary band in tow -

"He says that he will be my," Lavellan pauses as she tries to recall the words, "My frontline _body guard."_ She smiles and shrugs. "He seems nice? Commander, do you need a body guard, too? Do all important people need one? Is that why there are always so many people in shemlen cities? You have to double them all for importance?"

Cullen sighs and runs a hand down his face. Technically the Chargers will fall under his jurisdiction, even though they are an outside party. But they seem like a good group, even if a little eccentric and he almost imagines throwing them against Hawke's band of misfits before he realizes that one, it could only end in pain and disaster for _him_ and possibly a drunken brawl for them that ends up in no less than two broken noses and perhaps a new scar, and two, he is _not_ , actually, a glutton for punishment.

Still, he _worries_.

"Have you ever seen her in a fight?" Dorian asks him once, eyes narrowed. "She's terrifying, you know. I have no idea how you southerners train your mages but I think we could learn a thing or two. We might actually win the war against the qunari if we had fighters like _that_. It must be all that dog blood in you."

"A dog is for _life_." Cullen protests. And he is pretty sure that Lavellan is from the Free Marches.

Cullen supposes that he worries because she is young. She is young and the world is just looking for any and every excuse to tear her down. She is young, Dalish, a mage and a heretic, and a prime suspect for the death of the Divine. He thinks he has a right to worry for her personal safety.

"In all seriousness." Dorian tells him, pulling him aside as his eyes flicker over the Inquisitor's scouting party - Bull looks fine, he usually is. And Cullen does not want to ever know what could possibly take that man down. Cassandra looks irritated and tired, but then again she always looks some sort of combination of them both so that doesn't actually tell him anything at all. For all he knows they could have killed a damned Archdaemon and Cassandra would still look the same degree of tired and irritated as she does when she has to scrape dung off the bottom of her boot. Varric looks about as enigmatically cheerful as ever, which tells him absolutely _nothing_ except that perhaps that he had a good night's rest. And the Inquisitor follows shortly behind the other three with a giant splash of blood on her clothes. Cullen grimaces. "You fret almost as badly as Cassandra does. She does fine in a fight. Better than fine. Saved all of us more than once or twice. I am starting to think that maybe we should be sending _you_ into the field, Commander. Just to ease your worries."

Cullen would go into the field if he _could_. Maker, there are days when he wants nothing _more_ than to be out there. But he knew when he was signing up that it would not be the case, unless it was a major battle.

He is no condition to fight. Not every day, not with her, not out there.

The song of the lyrium is still so strong in his head. He does not trust himself, not completely, to be able to do what Cassandra and Bull and Blackwall do for her for weeks on end. It is better for them all if he's here, really. Even if going out would put his mind at ease.

"I believe you." Cullen says. And he does. Or part of him does, anyway.

She throws spells like she is hitting someone across the face. He can practically hear the swing of her staff and the crack of bone it would hit. And when she thrusts her hand out to seal a rift, it is a sharp jab that could probably knock a man unconscious if it strikes at the right point. She is force and brutality in a small and sharp-angled frame.

But he is older and he has seen terrible things happen to younger and stronger people.

He is the Commander of the Inquisition, and he will worry about every fighter they have. Herald of Andraste or _no_.

-

"We - we won, yes? That is. That is how these things _work_. Someone wins, someone loses. And there are wins and losses on both sides but the. The overall win is ours. Yes?" Varric casts a glance at the Inquisitor, huddled up small and as close to the fire as she can get. The desert is freezing at night, and she's too damn thin for any sort of heat.

Varric wishes that the Chargers' camp was closer to theirs. Bull is practically an entire fire, hearth, and heated coal brazier of his own.

"Yeah, Poppy. We won." Varric says, and tries to will away the awful taste in his mouth. They lost Hawke. Andraste, what does he tell the others? Hey guys, I kind of got sucked into something terrible and asked Hawke for help and, well. That's the end of that?

He wants to be angry at her - for making the call. But he can't be. She's so small and young and - and this is not her life. She didn't know Hawke. Not like he did. She made a call. And knowing Hawke, regardless of what Lavellan said, Hawke'd charge in anyway.

Hawke was always stupidly heroic like that.

Lavellan's face is shadowed and Varric - he has to remember. She almost died. Entered the Fade, physically, twice. Maker's balls. She's barely even twenty.

She shivers again and he wishes they had something better than the piss they call ale for her.

Her mouth is a thin line and she glances up at him.

"I'm sorry, Varric. _Ir abelas_." The fire casts a haunted look over her face. One he's sure is mirrored on his own.

"I know, Poppy. It's - "It's not alright. "You'll be fine."

Her lip trembles and he hears her take in a breath. He waits but she doesn't say anything. She gets up and turns around to slip into her tent.

"Sleep well, kid."

She's going to need it.

-

There is someone staring at him. From very close.

He does not think that he would be ambushed here - not at _Skyhold_ , but still -

He readies himself to reach for his sword and opens his eyes -

"Inquisitor." Blackwall sighs, and the lass smiles.

"You are awake!"

"Yes. I am now, at least." Blackwall sighs, running a hand down his face. How long as she been just staring at him? Maker, at least it's past dawn. He's heard stories from Bull and Sera where they've been woken up by her creeping well before daybreak. "Is there something you needed, my lady?"

"No." Lavellan says, and when he turns to look at her she's gone about to inspecting the rest of his quarters, leaning over half-made wooden toys and some of the Warden things they've brought back from the field. "Blackwall, why do you get to sleep in the barn? Cassandra just looks very sour when I ask her if I could sleep in the barn. Is it because she thinks it would be too crowded between us and the horses and my hart? Because I think there's plenty of room! And I don't take up much space. I can sleep in the stalls. I don't think the mounts mind. They like me."

"I expect that it was less about space and more about propriety, Inquisitor." He says, sitting up, sighing at the chill of the early morning air. He didn't check if she was barefoot again, but for her sake he hopes she isn't. It rained last night, and probably some of this morning.

"Propriety? Is it because you're a man? Because I've seen men naked and I've shared sleeping space with plenty of boys." Lavellan's head pops out from behind a stack of hay. "I mean, I know you wouldn't do anything untoward. You like _Josephine_."

Blackwall ignores the bright grin she shoots his way as she practically sings out the last sentence. The girl is infatuated with the various romances floating around Skyhold. She's read too many of the dwarf's books, if you ask him.

"I think it was more along the lines of you being the Inquisitor, and the Herald of Andraste shouldn't sleep in a barn." Blackwall replies, and he can't help the smile of amusement. She tends to bring that out in people. Happiness. The Inquistor huffs in annoyance rolling her eyes.

"Barn are _lovely_! They smell nice! Like hay and grass and animals. And you have to be quiet in a barn, otherwise you'll make the horses irritated." Lavellan walks down the stairs, and yes, she is wearing shoes. Thank the Maker. Blackwall goes to pull on his boots - "But, Blackwall. You shouldn't be in the barn. It's alright for your woodwork, I suppose. But you're a warrior and you need to rest well."

Her voice floats up from the barn floor as he laces his boots up. Still quiet, but somehow loud enough to hear.

"Bull always talks about how warrior wounds hurt, _especially_ in the cold. And I'm young and you're _not_ – no offense - so I can handle the cold better than you! _And_ I'm used to sleeping on the floor. You people like beds for some reason. And they're nice and all, but nothing beats curling up on warm furs and hay to the sound of your animals breathing." She lets out a wistful sigh. "Blackwall - Do you think they'd let me bring my hart up to the tower? And some hay? I don't think I'd be nearly as lonely up there if he was with me. It's so dreadfully quiet up there, Blackwall."

"You can ask the Seeker, but I am afraid I do not think she would be particularly amiable to that request." Blackwall gets up, stretching his back and sighing. A good bed does sound nice, but it is not - it is not something he deserves. Not something he can take from her. And he's slept on worse things than bales of hay.

His lips twitch upwards and he cannot help but throw it out there for her -

"If you're so worried about sleeping quarters, perhaps you should have a talk with our Commander."

Silence.

"What's wrong with the Commander's sleeping quarters?"

Blackwall's works hard to surpress the grin that threatens to break over his face as he goes down the stairs after her. He almost feels sorry. But it's better the Commander than him.

"He has a hole in his ceiling. Right above his bed."

Lavellan gasps. "Why does _he_ get a view? Oh, that's not fair - Excuse me, Blackwall, I have to - _Ugh_! No one ever _tells_ me these things! Do you think he'd switch with me? I have a desk and everything! I'll speak to you later, Blackwall!"

-


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing quite like the pleasure of getting tackled by a hundred pounds of fur that's delighted to see you.

**-**

" _You!_ " Cullen's door bangs open without further pre-amble and Cullen resigns himself to being yelled at today. A few of the scouts and soldiers around him attempt to put themselves between him and the intruder – commendable, Cullen thinks with no small amount of amusement and warmth, but ultimately meaningless as he has found that nothing will ever be enough to come between Cassandra and her chosen target – , a handful cut him glances that clearly say that he's on his own before bolting – the ones who have probably faced the Seeker's wrath, and wise, he does not blame them in the least, if he were not supposed to be in a position of power and thus responsibility and example, he would try to run as well –, and a few more back up against the walls as if they are going to watch the events. Cullen cocks an eyebrow at _those_ bunch and they give him sheepish looks before leaving.

He waves his hand to dismiss the few that would foolishly attempt to stop the Seeker's warpath, and gets mildly concerned, but relieved, looks in response.

"You can report in later." Cullen says, slight dread and resignation pooling in his stomach as the door shuts behind his second in command with a sense of finality. "Cassandra, what can I do for you?"

"You." The woman seethes, narrowing her eyes at him. " _You let a herd of mabari pups bond to the Inquisitor._ "

Cullen raises an eyebrow, "Cassandra. No one _lets_ a mabari do _anything_. They clearly found her worthy as the rest of us did."

Cassandra crosses her arms.

Cullen continues onwards – "What is wrong with the Inquisitor having a mabari? Dogs are loyal, mabari especially. Besides, it can't be any worse than that stag of hers. And you like _him_ just fine."

Cassandra shudders, "That thing _screams_ like nothing else. But at least it is useful. The Inquisitor cannot attend to her duties while being followed around by half a dozen, blind, clumsy, fumbling, _dogs_."

"It isn't as though you can't train them. Besides, half of Ferelden war tactics is a mabari charge." Cullen himself has never had the honor of bonding with a mabari, but he has had plenty of dogs in his youth. The Templar order also kept dogs for – well. Hunting mages. But they were fairly kind and amiable all around.

Cullen _misses_ dogs.

There's nothing quite like the pleasure of getting tackled by a hundred pounds of fur that's delighted to see you.

"In any case – why are you yelling at _me_?" Cullen says, "I resent that you immediately blame me for this. I am not the only Ferelden in the keep. Leliana is, too. _She_ even had the honor of fighting alongside the Hero's mabari."

" _Leliana_ ," Cassandra hisses, "Is not the one who has been feeding the Inquisitor fables of dogs and warriors almost every other night for the past month."

"Not _every_ night." Cullen corrects, "She's only been around the Keep for half a week."

Coincidentally, just in time for some of the mabari the Wardens had brought over to give birth to a litter. That she – just happened to be there for.

"I had _nothing_ to do with it. I swear." Cullen continues.

As if on cue, the Inquisitor's voice yelps from the upper level – "Oh no – _no!_ "

Both Cullen and Cassandra lunge, catching the pup that falls down from over the edge.

Cullen winces.

"Is he okay?" The Inquisitor's concerned face peers down at them.

Cassandra glares at Cullen. The pup in their hands gives a sharp bark, wiggling in their shared grip. She lets out a disgusted sigh and gently thrusts the pup at his chest.

" _Fereldens_." She groans, turning on her heel and stomping off.

"I almost had her." Cullen says when she's out of earshot. Lavellan gives him a rueful grin. "Though I am surprised you managed to stay quiet for the stag bit."

Lavellan wrinkles her nose as Cullen climbs up with one hand, careful with the squirming pup. They really need to find a place for them, but Lavellan's own rooms have more dangers to the pups than his does. And it isn't as though there are any other rooms she can use.

He supposes that they could sleep in the barn with Blackwall – the man wouldn't mind for sure – but it gets too cold there. And Cullen doesn't mind the company. He really does miss dogs.

"Dire circumstances. I'm sure he'd understand. And he doesn't _scream_."

"Of course not." The damned thing screams like its being murdered. "He's very dignified."

"This is why he likes you." The Inquisitor declares, taking back the puppy. "You may return to your duties, now, Commander."

"As my lady commands." Cullen dips his head, holding back his laugh as he shakes his head and descends back to his office. And he thought that being the Commander would be _boring paperwork_.

-

Anyone can tell that Lavellan has clearly checked out of the conversation. Especially the moment the fabric swatches came out.

Dorian is mildly amused by this, but he is also – mostly – bored out of his skull. There is only so much talk of brocades and hemlines and patterns he can take.

He likes men,fine wines, good books, and dressing well. This does not mean that he particularly likes the details that go into any of the above. _He_ isn't the one who makes his own clothing or writes his own books or any of that nonsense. He just enjoys the _product_.

Dorian sighs and gently kicks Lavellan under the table when her eyes get too glassy. Her face twitches.

Vivienne and Lelianna and Josephine have been going on for _hours_. He doesn't even know why he's _here_.

The good Commander only joined them a quarter of an hour ago, and he already looks a combination of dazed and indignant.

"If we could just make a decision, there are other duties we must attend to." Cullen says in another attempt to get the ladies back on track.

He is, again, ignored.

"What about this one? It is daring and it is unique. It will definitely make our dear Inquisitor stand out. She will be _radiant_." Vivienne says, pushing a sketch from some thick leather portfolio over to Leliana, who hums in delight.

Prior to this, Dorian didn't realize that the woman could even express happiness when blackmail wasn't involved. Good to know.

Lavellan cautiously leans forward, blinking rapidly as she frowns.

"You can't fight in that." She says, turns to Dorian and points, "Dorian, I don't think I could fight in that."

Dorian has seen the monstrosities that the Orlesians wear.

"No one can fight in those." He snorts, "I am fairly certain that if you tipped one of them over they would lie there on the floor unable to get up."

Cullen and Lavellan share snickers of amusement, carefully smothering their laughter when the other half of the table shoot glares at them.

"You are underestimating the _importance_ of _appearance_." Josephine says.

"I appear to be a Dalish apostate." Lavellan says, "Or as you shems say, a _knife-ear_." Lavellan pauses, turns to Cullen, "I still don't understand why they call us knife-ear. Knives are dangerous. I just _don't understand it_."

Josephine saves the Commander from having to answer by pushing another piece of paper towards them.

"This one." She says, and even Leliana and Vivienne look somewhat satisfied with the drawing as they lean back.

Dorian takes one look at it and chokes. The Commander _sputters_.

It is _ridiculous_.

It is – it is a mess of ribbon and what appears to be silk and lace, that simultaneously hides and constricts everything and seems to give away everything.

Lavellan just stares at the paper like it's going to eat her alive.

"No." Cullen vetoes, as Dorian is trying to find words to express just how _not right_ it is. "She'll trip on her face and kill herself on accident. Is that a piece of _glass_? Why in flames is there _shards of glass_ on a dress? Why is the neckline so _low_?"

"What is everyone _else_ wearing?" Lavellan asks, "Perhaps we should – coordinate. Look like a – united front." Dorian wishes he had more wine. At the rate they're going, he's even willing to settle for the piss they have at the tavern. The kind that the qunari and his band drink like water. Anything to get this experience as far away from him as possible.

Vivienne shuffles some portfolios and papers around and pulls out one -

"We have settled on this one for the Commander – " is as far as she gets before the Inquisitor pounces.

"Why does _he_ get trousers and I don't?" She demands, indignant as she thrusts the paper at Dorian, "I like trousers! you can _kick people_ in trousers! You can run in them, too! How come he gets them and I don't? I want trousers, too!"

Vivienne and Josephine look like they are going to hurt someone, or possibly break down. Leliana looks terrifyingly blank.

Dorian looks between them all and can sense a storm coming.

Before he can even fully stand up to leave, the Commander grabs him by the back of the shirt and firmly sits him down again.

"I demand trousers." Lavellan plows on. "I am going to this strange _ball_ to stop an _assassination_. I think the Commander is right – " All eyes fix on the man who has an admirable stone face on. _This_ is a man who has seen bloodshed. " – I am more likely to injure myself or whoever is with me in those dresses. Boots and trousers make more sense. And that jacket looks very warm and the ball is at night. And there are even gloves, too! I can hide weapons in those clothes! It's _practical!_ "

Dorian swears he sees Josephine's face spasm, and in result his life flashes before his eyes.

The Commander's fist is firmly holding him in place.

He will destroy the man in their next match. Completely and utterly. Just for this. He's not quite sure about what he's going to do to Vivienne for making him show up in the first place, but he'll think of something. Probably.

Lavellan looks like a woman who does not know danger. And considering what he knows of her, Dorian is unsurprised. She is staring down the three most influential and terrifying women in this room – no offense to her, but Dorian thinks he knows who he'd rather not piss off, and while Lavellan is his dearest friend and dangerous in her own right, _these women are utterly terrifying_ just by _breathing_ – and looks completely unmoved. Just upset by the lack of _trousers_.

Dorian opens his mouth before his brain can properly catch up with him -

"She has a point. Besides, we are an _Inquisition_. A _military force_. They expect us to be barbaric and crude and all sorts of those unspeakable things. Why not throw that in their faces? We are not here to bend to other's whims, but to show our spines." He sounds somewhat sane, at least. Lavellan beams at him and the Commander's hand slowly releases the back of his shirt. "We are not there to cater to their whims, nor are we there to curry their love or favor. We are there to do a job, and make a showing of _what we are_. And ultimately we are a knife and a fist going about fighting a war against a _hole in the sky_. We don't have the time or resources for silk and satin."

"An admirable point." Leliana admits.

Dorian feels their half of the table let out an audible sigh of relief.

"Well then." Vivienne says, "If we are going with that approach – _what are our colors?_ "

Fasta _vass._


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No." Lavellan says, blinking at him like he's the odd one. "Hello, Krem. How are you?"

**-**

"I think you're trying to fool me. Well – Well, Sera. It won't work."

Sera bites back on her giggles, the Herald's fingers twitching over her palms as she carefully guides the other woman onto the ice. It shouldn't be so damn funny, but Lavellan quakes like a newborn something-something-deer-maybe and that's just _hilarious_ considering that on any other surface she's steady as a tree. Rooted and level. Even when she's walking on top of waterfalls or scaling cliffs slippery with rain.

But on ice?

 _New. Born. Woodland. Animal._ Thingy.

Lavellan's face is turned downward, focused on the ice below them -

"Oh, come on. You face demons and other shit all the time. You ain't scared of _ice_ are you? What kind of mage is afraid of ice? I've seen you throw ice at people before." Sera teases, palms gently curling to pull the woman forward.

Lavellan has startling hands. When Sera first saw them – she thought they were pretty. Long fingers and pale, smooth looking skin. Like the noble ladies or something.

But later, when Lavellan came to talk to her – ask her about the Friends of Red Jenny, and how she was settling in -

She's an odd one, yeah. Asking all the small folks what life is like for them, how they like it, anything she can do – yeah. Sera thinks that if things were different, if she weren't such a big shot, she'd make a great Friend. As it is, she's a great friend.

\- Lavellan stood up, all grim and proper-like after asking her about half a dozen questions about everything and held out her hand. All awkward and stiff, like she wasn't used to it or something. And Sera had took her hand, mostly out of amusement than anything else and was _surprised_.

Those are workers hands.

They were rough calloused, and that close – in the warm flickering light of candles and pale sunshine and that stupid rip-hole-thing – she could see faint scars. Little nicks that probably came from blades or arrows or something. And her nails were short, neat, pretty and all – but practical.

Working hands. Good hands.

Sera felt a shit-ton better about signing up. It ain't some fairy-princess-wood-person leading, it wasn't some noble posh. It was someone who knew work. Who knew _shit when they saw it_. Who probably dealt with their fair share of it.

That's confidence inspiring, right there. Yeah – she would make a great Friend.

"You can't honestly – " Lavellan sputters, hunching over a little as she wobbles. "People don't do this, do they?"

"Relax. If that giant ox can do it – " Sera jerks her chin over Lavellan's shoulder towards where the Chargers are set up on the snowy banks at Haven's outer walls, "And if that stupid bald elf can do it without _shoes_ – "

Sera flashes a quick grin when Lavellan bites her cheek to keep from laughing -

"So can you. Herald of Andraste, chosen one and all that divine stuff."

"I'm fairly sure that Solas doesn't actually feel anything in his feet anymore." Lavellan says. "I've seen him walk over _fire_ , Sera. It was absolutely terrifying."

"I believe you." Sera replies. He's an ass, but he's a _strong_ ass. "Alright, come one. One foot in front of the other, easy innit? That's it. Don't worry – the ice is good. Tested and Herald-approved. It's fun. Don't sweat it."

"I'm going to land on my ass and everyone is watching and it's going to be _awful_." Lavellan mourns, but straightens up a bit anyway. "I'm taking you down with me when I go. Just so you know."

Sera throws her head back and laughs. "Just try it."

-

"Your worship." Krem blinks, awkwardly standing next to his usual chair which is – occupied. Oddly enough. Lavellan perches on his chair, and sitting this way she's taller than him – "Anything I can do for you?"

"No." Lavellan says, blinking at him like _he's_ the odd one. "Hello, Krem. How are you?"

Tired and hungry. Mostly ready to sit down and knock back a few drinks. He can see the chief watching them out of the corner of his eye. Looks amused, smug bastard. Probably knows why she's sitting here like a little bird.

"Fine." Krem shifts his weight, goes to pull out a chair from one of the tables the Chargers normally have to themselves, and straddles it, sitting next to her. He figures that she's here for a reason, and that he might as well try to puzzle it out while he waits for his food to come over. "You holding up alright? Boss been doing good out there? If he talks to much you can shut him up with a good kick."

The Inquisitor looks down at him from her perch, he almost wants to reach out a hand to steady her, but she knows what she's doing. Light and quick and terrifyingly reckless. Even according to the chief's standards. Which is saying something.

"The Iron Bull is an excellent frontline body guard." She says, offering him a quick smile. "And he says the most insightful things. I am very glad you convinced him to extend a hand to the Inquisition, Krem."

Krem rubs the back of his neck, feels a dull ache there, nods at her. "So am I, your worship. You do good work."

" _We_ do good work, Krem." She replies, straightening up, "Krem, is the reason why you always sit on the back of the chair because you get a good vantage point? Because this is very uncomfortable, but it is also very interesting. Everything looks different. It shouldn't because it's the same things, but it _does_ because this is a new height. The Iron Bull says you sit up here because it makes you around the same height he is when he's sitting, is that true? Is this how things look to him? He won't tell me. Everything looks odd. Lower than it should be."

Krem blinks, twists around in time to see the chief turn away from him and take a swig out of his tankard.

One eyed bastard.

Krem clears his throat. "Ah – no. Yes? Yes. I guess it's around the right height. No, that's not why I sit on the back of the chair."

Lavellan tilts her head. Waiting.

"It's a good vantage point." Krem explains. "Door, stairs, bar table." He jerks his head towards Bull, "Helps me keep an eye on this lot. And helps me keep an ear out."

Lavellan's mouth shapes an _oh_ , and then she springs off the chair, nearly giving Krem a heart attack as the thing wobbles, almost pitching forward from the force of her jump. She lands with a thump, "Thank you for explaining, Krem. You're a very good second and Bull is lucky to have you. I'll leave you to your watching now – Cole, are you up there? Cole?"

Krem stares after her, dazed as she jumps up the stairs two at a time, softly calling out for that strange boy with the hat -

He turns to Bull.

"She always like that?" Krem honestly can't remember. It's like she's an experience every time.

Bull rolls his shoulders, flashing his teeth, "You should see her with the Vint and Solas. Pretty sure she turns their heads around just by opening her mouth."

-

The girl is an endless stream of questions – as soon as she's exhausted all her options for _one_ trail of thought, she's plowing into another one. It reminds him that she is young. She has spent most of her life isolated from the rest of the world, and this is – it is culture shock of some sort, he supposes. He imagines what it must be like for her, and is amazed she hasn't gone off screaming somewhere.

Herald of Andraste – she does not even believe – and future savior of Thedas.

Cullen wonders if he's just _meant_ to be thrown into these situations. The Blight, Kirkwall – now this.

He imagines being old and gray and withered and being thrown head-first into the end of the world once more and almost laughs at the image. They have to survive _this_ first, of course.

He answers her questions, knows that it is not just him who comes underneath her curious gaze and becomes a target for the cautious and curious stream of her voice. He's seen her trailing after Cassandra like a duckling, curious and wide-eyed, and he's seen her standing next to the Bull's mass. a little slip of a thing in his shadow, open faced and awed as she flings question after question at him. He's even seen her with Madame Vivienne, soaking in her _darlings_ and _of course!_ -es.

It makes him wonder what she'll do – when, if this ever ends. If she will go back to her clan in the Free Marches.

This – this thing they are crafting. Cullen cannot imagine leaving it. It has become part of him. It is _vital_. Part of his blood and bone in ways Kirkwall and the Circle weren't. They were – perhaps foundations, yes. But this? This is _him_. He is part of the faces that dragged this into being.

He cannot imagine returning to – to the Templars or to service. He cannot imagine settling in the country as a farmer or merchant. Or even as some sort of trainer.

He has seen too much, done too much.

Cullen keeps an eye on their Herald as she runs after nugs, a splash of color that dashes by the stables – he thinks he sees Blackwall shaking his head, amusement or dismay it's hard to tell – and around the bend into the snow around Haven. She's safe here. He hopes.

There have been no incidence about her being an elf or a mage so far. But Cullen feels more comfortable when she's in sight. Around the people he trusts. He is fairly certain most of the others – Cassandra and Bull, at least – feel the same.

He turns back towards their troops – their numbers aren't exactly growing. But they have a small and careful uptick of numbers. A few trickling in every so often. Always saying something about the Herald, the help they received from her. The good work of the Inquisition proving itself not to be all talk and bolster.

 _This_ is what he wanted to do. He wanted to _act_. It feels – right. Proper. _Good_.

Cullen turns around – half the training yard pausing – when he hears a loud yelp and a muffled thump. A few seconds later, Lavellan pops up out of a snowdrift.

He can't help the soft almost laugh as he shakes his head.

He thinks he's going to look forward to what changes this girl will bring.  


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're staring, Varric." She says, not looking up from the small wooden bowl of stew she cradles in her long fingers. "Are you alright?"

**-**

Her eyes catch small flecks of light, even at night in the darkness, and it makes him wonder if she can see. There are legends about elves being able to see better, hear better, flames - even _smell_ better - than anyone else. Looking at her, and the careful way she plants each step on the ground he almost wants to ask.

"You're staring, Varric." She says, not looking up from the small wooden bowl of stew she cradles in her long fingers. "Are you alright?"

"Just thinking." Varric replies, waving a hand. She reminds him of a quieter version of Daisy, sometimes. Other times, he can almost catch glimpses of Anders. Before he went - _well_. Before he went and blew up the Chantry. A kind person who wanted to help, someone who just wanted to do good things and help people who couldn't get help from anyone else. Someone trying their damned best.

The longer he lives, the more of other people he sees on new faces, he thinks. Maybe it'll save his neck in the long run. Who knows?

"Free Marcher, right?" Varric asks, and Lavellan looks up, nodding, small dip between her eyebrows as she tries to figure out where he's going with this. "Ever go anywhere near Kirkwall?"

Lavellan snorts, a giggle and that makes her eyes crinkle and her teeth flash. "Of course not. That'd be silly, Varric."

"Yeah. Guess you're right." Varric shakes his head. You do have to be some sort of crazy and desperate to go live near or around Kirkwall. "Someday, you want to go?"

Lavellan cocks her head. "Cullen doesn't exactly have the most flattering words for the place. Neither does Cassandra."

"I'll be there." Varric points out.

"And this - Daisy. The person you call Daisy. She'll be there, too?"

Maker willing. "Yes. I still think you two should  meet. You'd have a blast." Varric replies. He can just picture it now. If he could somehow throw in Broody and Buttercup, it'd be a real party. Hell, why not add Chuckles to the mix? The five of them are just as different, and somehow the same, as you can get.

He might even invite the others along for drinks to watch. _Heh_. That'd be a riot. He's not sure who'll end up strangling who first. But he's pretty certain he knows who he'd put his money on.

Lavellan hums, returning to contemplating her food. "It would be nice. I like traveling. And Cullen always says Kirkwall is an experience."

-

"Josephine."

She looks up to see the Inquisitor, nervously shuffling her feet. She had heard someone come in - but people often come and go from her office, scouts, messengers, soldiers, dropping off parcels and papers, or taking them away.

"May I help you with something, your worship?" Josephine asks, careful to move her quill before she blotches the paper. "Do you want me to call a meeting?"

"Oh, no!" Lavellan says, blinking, waving her hands in front of her. "No. I just. Um. Are you terribly _busy_? You always _seem_ busy, but so does Cullen and Leliana, but I was wondering if you were actually busy at this very moment. Which – which sounds very silly because it's not like you're wasting time, I didn't mean to imply that. Creators I don't shut up."

"For you, no. I'm not busy." Josephine says, smiling as she puts her quill down and caps her ink bottle. She folds her hands together, giving the Inquisitor her full attention. "How might I be of service?"

Lavellan tilts her chin downwards, "I just. I um. I just wanted to talk, if that was alright." Lavellan gives her a nervous smile. She is so very charming. Though Josephine worries how well she'll handle meeting with diplomats and visiting nobles. She's such an open girl. Honest. Even when she's lying. There's something a little painful in having to turn someone this honest, this open into someone like the Inquisitor they need on the throne. It's like they're changing her nature. Josephine just can't tell if it's for better or worse.

"Of course. Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?"

Lavellan's mouth twists and she plays with her fingers. Josephine waits.

"Boys." Lavellan finally says, wincing. Josephine blinks.

"Boys?" She repeats. Lavellan slowly nods her head, eyes fixed on the stone floor in front of her.

"Yes. Um. Boys. Men. I suppose." Lavellan's hands flutter. "You're very good at - you're very good at talking to people. All people. And I'm. Not? So I was - um. Wondering if you could. Um. Well. It's not the same as talking to the members of my _clan_!" Lavellan waves her hands, an explosive flurry of motion. Her face is flush pink, even the tips of her ears. "It's different with the clan! You know everyone and everyone's known you since forever! You know you don't talk to _that_ person about _this_ thing, and you know that you should always share gossip with _that_ person, and you know that _this_ hahren doesn't like it when you mention _that_ thing. And it's okay! And you can sort of tell with other clans, who talks to who. But here it's - it's." Lavellan deflates. " _Different_."

Josephine smiles a little. "You've been doing fine so far. Dorian has nothing but praise for you, and you even get Solas talking."

"Yes, well." Lavellan sputters, "Dorian has a lot to say, all I have to do is _be_ there. And it's not hard to ask questions. The problem is I've run out of questions and I'm not very good at this. I can - I can talk to girls just fine, but boys are different. Shem boys are strange. They have beards, Josephine." Lavellan looks slightly perplexed. " _Beards_."

Josephine fights very hard not to laugh.

"And I don't want to look stupid." Lavellan continues. "I don't want to look stupid in front of them. What if I make a silly mess of myself? Then they'd realize that I'm just a - well. _Me_. And then they'd regret all of their decisions up until that very moment and leave." Lavellan picks at the edge of her tunic. "So. Yes. I was wondering if you could - well. I suppose teach me not to be a very large and giant mess of nerves and ignorance."

"First, I think everyone would like you just fine – and they _do_ like you. You are young and you don't know much about the world. It is understandable that you do not know much about how to relate to others." Josephine says, slowly rising and moving around the desk to take her by the elbow and guide the girl towards the armchairs around the fireplace. "Second, you do just fine, Inquisitor. Trust me. Of course you're a little - _well_. Awkward at times, but most people are. It makes you approachable. It's a good thing. We can't all be perfect. That being said, the best way to learn is to practice. So why don't we call Varric in here, or perhaps Cullen, and talk?"

-

The Commander somehow looks smaller without his pauldrons and heavy furs. Krem tilts his head and squints. Kind of looks _normal_. It's not a bad look on him, but he kind of blends into a crowd. Not really the type of image you'd associate with a Commander of an army. He figures that people like that do need some kind of distinguishing feature from far away. Cullen's, he supposes, was that whole lion-motif.

Chief, of course, is the _chief_.

And her worship is, uh. Well. It's hard to miss her in a fight. Considering that she glows green and calls down lightning.

"You're looking slightly more underdressed than usual, Commander. Missing something?" Krem says, leaning against the edge of the training ring as Cullen steps back from adjusting a soldier's stance.

Cullen's lip twitches upwards and he wordlessly points towards the shade made by Skyhold's walls. Krem turns and looks over his shoulder, grins.

The Commander's coat and furs are curled around a sleeping Lavellan, who in turn, is leaning against that boy - what's his name? Right. Cole. Cole is sitting very still, hands folded in his lap, long gangly legs stretched out in front of him. The Inquisitor is curled up in the reds and browns of the Commander's coat, head resting on Cole's shoulder.

"Now isn't that a picture." Krem says, turning back to the Commander. Cullen laughs.

"She needs some rest." He says, rolling his shoulders, "And I admit, it's something of a relief to not wear that thing for a while. Cold as it may be."

"Well, now that you're out of that thing, maybe you can stand to get a little dirt on you." Krem says, "Willing to spar with a sell-sword, Commander?"

Cullen gives him a look. "As long as you're not going to be swinging around that thing you call a hammer, I'm willing."

Krem snorts, jumping over the fence to go find a training sword, "Aw, what's the matter, Commander? Scared of a little rock?"

-

"Remind me why I'm coming with you?"

"Because Madame Vivienne is busy." Lavellan says, "Solas is doing some research. Sera hates the distant outdoors." She holds up both hands to start counting off, and Dorian mentally prepares himself for a bunch of garbage bullshit to be thrown at him. "She says that she's fine with trees but she's not going all the way to the edge of nowhere. Her words, not mine. Um. Cassandra and Blackwall won't say it, but they hate picking sand out of their armor and I'm pretty sure they over heat anyway. Varric says he's a city dwarf and he's getting on in years so he needs to take a break and file some paperwork."

She frowns. "I feel bad because we always go to cold wet places and Bull doesn't wear a shirt, so he's coming. Besides we're paying him to go do things no one wants to do. Also. Venatori and dragons."

Dorian refrains from pointing out that she isn't paying herself and clearly someone wants to do it because _she's_ going.

"Cole doesn't mind. He likes the quiet and he likes going places, so he's coming, too. He also doesn't mind Bull that much. They get along."

"And me. Why me? I hate sand getting into - well, my everything, just as much as Cassandra and Blackwall do." Dorian points out. "I do research like Solas. I'm not getting paid like Bull is."

Lavellan looks at him over her long fingers, "But Dorian. You're my best friend - and you're always complaining about being cold."

"That doesn't mean I want you to cook me in my _leathers_!" Dorian protests, but he's already getting up and making his way to his quarters, Lavellan trailing behind him. "This is an abuse of friendship. I've read enough to know where this is going. First you ask for the little things, like a reference book or help with research or, _Dorian can you pass that jar of so and so_. Next you move on to the bigger things like _Dorian can you do this for me, Dorian can you hide me, Dorian can you go to the middle of nowhere get sand in your eyes and mouth and somehow in your small clothes and fight a dragon with me_? I know your tricks, I see through you. And I'm telling you it's working, damn it."

Lavellan's laugh is light, mostly a little huff of air that trills and trails off sweetly. Dorian sighs, throwing his door open.

"You're so very lucky you're pretty, my dear." Dorian says as he picks up the travel bag he's learned to keep handy around her, turning to flick her forehead. She yelps. "Pretty people like us get away with everything."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's like a dragon. Basically." Krem says, warily eyeing the stables. "You sure it's a good idea to put it in the very, very flammable barn, your worship?"

**-**

They've been at it for hours, Solas thinks, arguing back and forth and coming into dead ends over and over. He thinks that they would be more effective if they took a break, to sleep, eat, rest, clear their minds and start anew. But the end draws to a close upon them all, and they are all anxious to finish this war.

Still -

Solas watches the Inquisitor's fight to stay awake - and he does not blame her at all for the way her head droops and snaps back up. She had only just come back from a two week long adventure in the Hissing Wastes, exploring ancient ruins. On one hand he is envious that she did not bring him with her, on the other he feels somewhat relieved, considering that when she returned she was burned and just barely awake.

"There was a sleeping _dragon_ , hahren." She whispered with wide and sleepless eyes, "It was huge. The Bull wanted to _fight_ it." There was a slightly deranged look on her face, and Solas had paused to idly brush some sand off of her hair. "He wanted to fight it. We were all dead tired and ready to go home and he wanted to _fight_ the thing. _We had to fight the thing._ "

Even the Ambassador's patience seems to be wearing thin, as her handwriting becomes increasingly sharp and pointed. Solas thinks that the Commander has long reached the limits of his patience, especially from the way his hands shake.

The only one not showing any true signs of tiredness is the spymaster, but she shows little and Solas knows better than to think that she is anything like the face she presents.

The arguing returns to the beginning point and Solas barely slides his hand across the war table - knocking over a few markers, but they can be put back of course - in time to catch the Inquisitor's head on his palm with a loud, and slightly painful, _thump_. Lavellan's head stays down and the entire room is silent.

"I believe," Solas says, almost lying on the war table, Lavellan's forehead cushioned on his palm, "That it is time to adjourn for the night."

-

"It's like a dragon. Basically." Krem says, warily eyeing the stables. "You sure it's a good idea to put it in the very, very flammable barn, your worship?"

"No." Lavellan replies, squinting her eyes at the barn. "But I don't know where else to put it. I'm concerned for the other mounts, though. What if they don't get along?"

"I figure yours would scream them into submission and obedience if they don't play nice." Krem muses, smiling a little at the affronted look she throws at him. "Yes, yes, he doesn't _scream_ , he gives dignified bellows, forgive me for the insult, worship."

"You think you're so _clever_." Lavellan mutters. "I can't believe anyone thinks that Bull is the leader of the chargers."

"He is the leader. I'm the _commander_." Krem clarifies, "Someone has to call out orders while he's running around beating the shit out of everything that moves. Besides - name Bull's Chargers sounds better than Krem's Chargers, yeah?"

Lavellan smiles.

They both flinch when they hear a reptilian sounding screech from the stables and the glint of sparks.

"Oh _no_." Lavellan whispers - "I knew bringing it was a bad idea, but - "

"The chief  just looked like a love sick puppy, didn't he?" The man has an unhealthy appreciation for dragons. Granted, he has a pair of dragon horns growing out of his skull -  but _still_. Krem winces in sympathy. He's heard stories about the dragons the Inquisitor has fought. Three, so far. The chief dragging her into every single one.

Luckily they made it out alive, even if the Inquisitor is missing a few inches of hair after that last one.

("Electricity." She mourns as she curls up next to Krem in the corner of the tavern. "That's _my_ thing. What else am I supposed to throw at it if it throws electricity at _me_? Is this how it feels to get zapped by lightning? I don't like it. My poor hair. At least it grows back -  but the smell is so _awful_."

"Electricity!" The chief booms as he slams his tankard down on the table, making the entire length of wood rattle a little. "It was excellent, Krem! Makes you really feel _alive_! You should've been there - it was fucking _great_. That really made my week.")

Before either of them can move towards the stables to - well, see if anything is dead - a loud, echoing _scream_ follows. Deep and rattling. It makes the entire courtyard freeze for a moment.

A clicking whimper-wine.

Silence.

"Told you, so, your worship." Krem says, ruffling her hair. "Your steed's dignified bellows can frighten anything into obedience. You should try using it on the chief sometime."

-

"Barbarians." Dorian says, averting his eyes in time to have a tunic thrown at his face. He closes his eyes and wrinkles his nose against the smell of drying blood and sweat, picking it off of him with his fingertips and throwing it towards the haphazard pile of clothing, " _Uncultured_ barbarians. Uncivilized, too. While I'm at it, I'm going to add on _wild_ and _undomesticated_. And whatever _un_ words that are probably appropriate but don't spring to mind at the moment."

"No one takes a bath in their clothing, Dorian." Lavellan replies, completely unfazed, "That defeats the purpose of taking a bath."

"In most circles, a woman would not disrobe in front of a man - regardless of sexual preferences, and the fact that we are the closest of bosom friends - unless she was a certain _type_ of woman or the two are wed and particularly adventurous. You are in the out doors, do you have no sense of decency? No. Don't answer that. _Don't_. And, my dear, as much as I cherish you as my one and only true friend, this is quite a lot more of you than I would want to see under any circumstances."

"Have you not seen a woman naked before?"

Dorian picks up her discarded clothes and goes to fold them and put them on a rock. "That isn't the _point_. Thank the Maker that Madame Vivienne isn't here. Or Cassandra. I don't know which one of them would be spitting fire. You're supposed to be the Herald of Andraste! Show some modesty!"

"I'm tired and I'm dirty and the water is nice." Lavellan says. Dorian takes a few seconds to be glad that Blackwall and Varric are still at the campsite. "Come on, Dorian. Weren't you complaining about the mud and the viscera? I'll wash your back."

"It's inappropriate."

"You _live_ off of being inappropriate!"

"Certain _types_ of inappropriate!" Dorian sighs, bracing himself and turning around. The water is so clear and she's sitting there shamelessly - wiry limbs and serene eyes and strange markings and all. Dorian covers his face with his hands and groans. "Ugh. I cannot believe this is actually happening. The Herald of Andraste - "

"We both know it _wasn't_ Andraste, Dorian."

"- naked in the middle of the woods and asking me to join her." Dorian laughs, starts on the straps of his armor, "Well. Who am I to turn down a good offer when I get one? There is blood in my hair and I, for one, desperately want to get it out. Consider yourself lucky, Inquisitor. I don't normally disrobe without someone buying me dinner, first."

"I brought you an entire _library_." Lavellan replies. "You're welcome."

-

"I take it that you aren't used to snow." Varric says as he watches the girl they're calling the Herald of Andraste, pick her way over to him, face scrunched up in annoyance and wonderment.

"It's so - " She pauses, waving her hand before turning to look at him with wide eyes.

"Cold? White? Freezing? Wet?"

" _Strange_." She says, face pinched. "I don't quite know if I like it yet. Hello, Varric."

"Hello, Herald." He says, laughing a little as she frowns down at her feet. "Not used to shoes yet, either, I suspect."

"Yes, how did you know?" She asks, still not looking at him, and completely sincere as she idly kicks her heel against the ground near the fire. "I don't know how you can stand them. It's so hard to climb with them. I can - still. Climb, I mean. But it just seems unnecessarily hard. Solas doesn't wear shoes. Why don't you make Solas wear shoes?"

"You could try taking them off."

"I did." Lavellan wilts a little, "Everyone who passed by me said I should put them back on."

Varric laughs a little, shaking his head. "It's good advice. A good pair of boots could save a life."

Lavellan looks up at him, brows furrowed. He waves a hand.

"Never mind. Did you want something?"

Lavellan's expression clears, "Yes. I had a question, if you were amiable to give answers."

"Shoot." Varric replies, moving over a little so she can stand closer to the fire. "By which I mean, go ahead, kid."

She smiles before schooling her face into something serious. "Varric."

"Yes?"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?'

"That you're married to your crossbow? I'm not going to judge you if you are. Or - I mean. I'll _try_ not to. The Keeper always said you shouldn't judge people. No matter how strange because you don't know them and it's not fair."

Varric blinks, then laughs - "No. Bianca here isn't the type for settling down. Why, who told you that?"

"Sera." Lavellan says -

"You should know better than to listen to everything Sera says."

"I know." Lavellan replies, slowly nodding. "So I asked Blackwall. And then Cullen. Then to make _absolutely_ sure, I asked Leliana _and_ Cassandra. They all said yes, but now I think they must have been playing with me. Or perhaps I don't quite understand the concept of marriage? I think I might need hahren to explain it to me again." She sighs, "You don't think I"m annoying him, do you? I'm sure he must have other things to do than explain shems to me."

"Are you kidding? Chuckles actually likes you." Varric laughs. "You're the only one he gives actual answers to. Or at least, answers that are - apparently - understandable and not riddles."

"But you do that, too!"

"Only with the Seeker." Varric says, "And it's different."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's an elven thing, you wouldn't get it." She had said. She says that about a lot of things – like her _bow_.

**-**

When Bull opens the door to his quarters he blinks in surprise, and is very, _very_ glad he didn't follow through on the hints one of the scouts was throwing at him and brought her back with him.

 _That_ would be _very_ awkward.

Lavellan is curled up at a corner of his bed, boots neatly tucked off to the side, thin hands curled up under her chin, like a small animal – kind of makes him think of that rabbit Dalish had before Skinner got to it, poor thing. Bull sighs, scratches at one of his horns and can't help but be a little amused. He's pretty sure he isn't the only one this happens to.

Bull vaguely remembers Krem's yelp of surprise – from the other room – and thump when he woke up to the boss tucked up against his back a week or so ago. And if he thinks about it, he's definitely sure he's heard most of the others – even Solas and Josephine – mention it once or twice.

It's a thing the boss does.

Bull sighs and moves to gently pick her up – she weighs so little, and he can feel her sharp bones, she's normally a really light sleeper, but he guesses it's different when she's here. Not a good habit to get into. You can get ambushed even at the safest places. Not that he's going to try and tell her that. Kid deserves to get some peaceful rest, yeah. – and she only mumbles a little bit when he moves her under the covers towards the head of the bed. Plenty of room for her and him both, she just tucks up real small and Bull is a pretty still sleeper anyway.

He thinks he saw Blackwall carrying her up to the barn loft a month or two ago, wrapped up in a clean horse blanket.

"It's too quiet." The spymaster had said on one of the rare occasions she joined them for Wicked Grace. "I had a friend who did that, once. She'd just pick one of us and lie down. She said that she was used to the Circle tower bunks, being surrounded with other sleepers. It was warm for her, safe she said. The silence and space was unnerving. It is probably the same with the Dalish."

"Is this friend of yours the Hero of Ferelden?" The Commander had said, wry twist to his lips as Leliana smiled.

Now that Bull really thinks on it, he thinks he remembers Dalish doing something like this when she first signed up. But she mostly kept to shoving her bedroll as close as she could to another person's without being weird about it and staying awake as long as possible so everyone else could fall asleep first.

"It's an elven thing, you wouldn't get it." She had said. She says that about a lot of things – like her _bow_.

"Night, boss." Bull says, resting his hand over her head. She mumbles and curls up, rolling onto her face. Bull muffles a laugh as he lies down next to her. _Elves_.

-

"I'm glad you're here." Lavellan says as Dalish pushes down on her back. "If you weren't here there would be no one to do partner stretches with because shems are strange and stretch weird."

"You have no idea how hard it was for me before Skinner joined us." Dalish says, "A little bit more, yes?"

"Just a little." Lavellan says, trying to stretch her fingers forward. She winces a little at the pull on her thighs. "Okay, okay, Hold. You're the best, Dalish."

"I know." Dalish laughs, slowly letting her ease up and moving to sit behind her, pressing her back to Lavellan's. They link arms and Lavellan slowly leans back as she curls forward. "Nothing beats a morning stretch, right?"

"I am completely certain that if they would stretch in the mornings like this they would be less unhappy." Lavellan says.

"I'm surprised you couldn't get that other one – Solas? To do this with you." Dalish says. "He seems _limber_."

Lavellan snorts out a laugh. "Hahren spends most of his time staying awake or sleeping. He likes doing his stretches by himself, he's too sleepy to be coherent in the mornings he says."

"He just wants to look smart in front of you, then." Dalish laughs, "It would be nice if we could get one more person to join us. That way Skinner doesn't get left out."

"She seemed happy enough to let me borrow you."

"Skinner doesn't like waking up early."

They both click their tongues.

"It's all the drinks." Lavellan muses, and Dalish starts to slowly push up, feeling Lavellan's back against hers as Lavellan takes her turn to curl. "Drinking makes you want to sleep forever."

"It does." Dalish agrees. "But stretches feel so good. Especially when you get that pop just _right."_

Lavellan lets out a small hum of agreement.

-

"Hahren? May I ask you some things, if you aren't busy?"

Solas looks up from his sketches, laying down his pencil and shuffling the pages together. "I have time, da'len. What questions may I attempt to answer for you, today?"

"It's just – when we were at the Exalted Plains." She says, tangling her fingers in her tunic, idly playing with the metal clasps and ornaments. "There were temples for everyone. Andruil and Sylaise and we even found evidence for one of Dirthamen."

"Yes. It is amazing how well preserved they were, considering the history of the place." Solas says, slowly folding his fingers together.

"And there was even something for Ghilan'nain." Lavellan continues, pressing her lips together and brow drawing downwards in concentration.

"And why not? She was one of these gods, as well, was she not?" Solas replies.

"Well, yes. But she was of the People _first_ then she became a Goddess later." Lavellan says. "She isn't always included. Not that I'm saying she _shouldn't be_ , just that – not always."

Solas waits.

"So I was – in your dreaming, hahren, have you ever found a temple for Fen'Harel?" The words rush out of her like a stream as she looks up at him with large eyes, "Because if everyone has one, shouldn't he, also have one? We see statues of him all over the place but shouldn't he also have a temple for himself? He – he's kin to the gods, they say. So it makes sense that he would have one. And I know that he's supposed to be the traitor but we still fear him and we still talk about him, and he has his good points and he wasn't _always a betrayer_ , so he must have had a temple at one point."

She pauses, frowning – "Don't look at me like that. You look at me like the Keeper – the Keeper used to whenever I asked too many questions."

"It is – an unexpected question to hear." Solas says, attempting to smother a smile. "It is not often that one is asked if they know of a temple for the Dread Wolf. You, as always, continue to surprise me, Inquisitor."

"Well – maybe at this point you should stop being surprised by being surprised."

"I will attempt it. As to your other question – yes. I have seen – _glimpses_ of a temple for Fen'Harel." Solas says, idly running a finger over the jawbone on his chest. "Though I hope you will not ask me where it is, as it would be unwise to travel there."

Lavellan hums, contemplative. "But it – it did exist, right?"

"Yes."

"Well. As long as I _know_ that there was one, I think I'll be alright." Lavellan says, smiling, "It was bothering me. Thank you, hahren."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the moment comes, Bull does not know why he looks to her. To the little elf bas saarebas.

**-**

The Inquisitor is not one for unkind words or fits of rage and anger. He has watched over her long enough to know this, seen her put through course after course of fire and ice to understand that it is not in her nature to break and shatter to the compulsions of fury.

The girl is a gentle soul, if anything more prone to sparks of playful lightning and crackling hisses that flicker and fade out leaving afterimages on the back of eyes as quickly as they are born. Her tempers are far in between and mild, short lived.

This, Solas thinks, is the closest he has ever come to seeing her approach true anger. And even then, it is nothing of the anger he has seen from countless others placed in positions such as hers.

"I just – it's all well and good for her to _know_ things." Lavellan says, flickering around the rotunda – it is enough to make him dizzy if he keeps watching her, so he does not. Instead he focuses on sketching plans for the rotunda's walls. How best to capture Gaspard and Celene's game.

It is a little pathetic to think that he was so amused by them, when before he played for much higher stakes and with many more players than they ever could have imagined.

"But she's – " Lavellan makes a high noise of anger, that twists into a low groan as she flings herself onto the sofa someone – the Ambassador, most likely– had brought into the room when he was out one day. He looks up and sees her kick her legs in the air and he is certain that if anyone were to look down from the upper levels they would be surprised to see their Inquisitor acting like such a child.

Then again, he thinks to himself, softly, she is very much a child. A woman by the judgment of the Dalish, yes – no doubt they had a bond mate lined up for her and her entire future plotted out down to the very last second of her child rearing days – but she is sheltered and unaware of so many things.

"I would have thought that you would appreciate having someone aside from myself to speak to on such things." Solas says, teasing but not unkind, "You and I have such differing views on the Dalish, after all."

"That's _different_ , hahren." He wonders what it says about himself that he is deeply amused by the tone of voice she is taking. So different from the calm and polite, if somewhat whimsical and stubborn, da'len he's used to speaking to. She sounds _petulant_ and _annoyed_. "You're actually an elf."

"A flat-ear."

"You're being _stubborn_ and sometimes I think you relish in being scorned by the Dalish. But I'm not here to talk about the Dalish. I'm here to talk about _her_." Lavellan waves a thin arm in the vague direction of the gardens. "It's one thing if _you_ talk to me about our people – and I see you opening your mouth, hahren. You have pointy ears and walk barefoot and call me _da'len_. I'm not arguing whether you're _lethallin_ or not right now. Don't test me! – at least you are. You're a _hahren_. You have experience. You've walked the Fade! You _know!_ But her! _Her!_ "

Solas settles back into his chair as she flings herself back onto her feet, another sound pulling itself from her throat as she flitters around the rotunda, bits of stray magic bursting from her fingers and fading away into the air.

"She's a _shem!_ " Lavellan yells, startling the birds above them. Solas looks up and sees Dorian leaning over the railing. Solas shakes his head, gesturing at Lavellan. Dorian rolls his eyes, throws his arms up before retreating. "Who does she think she _is_? Arcane advisor or _no_ , I was the _first! The First of my clan!_ And I was a good First – " Lavellan falters, and Solas opens his mouth -

You did not kill your clan. You _are_ a good First.

\- but she puts herself back on track readily enough with a firm stomp of her foot. " – and _she's_ telling _me_ about _Andruil?_ About Dirthamen and Falon'din? Does she think I don't even know the own vallaslin on my _face_? The – the _gall!_ " Lavellan crosses her arms, shoulders shaking a little. "Talking at me like I'm some – some – " She gestures for a word, " – some uneducated _seth'lin?_ She's a _shem!_ What does she know of our people that we don't? And even if she did know something! She doesn't have to talk to me like that!"

Solas hums and she spins to him, wobbling a little – arms flailing outwards as she stumbles. She blinks.

"I – _ir abelas_ , hahren. Did you know that this rotunda is very round? It's peculiar. I don't know how you and Dorian can stand to be in it so long." She blinks, dazed as she falls into a crouch, scratching at her head, shooting a puzzled glance at the feet of his desk. "I'm sorry. I can't remember how long I've been here."

An idle thought about birds and round cages crosses his mind.

Fatalistic thoughts indeed.

"Do not take her manner to heart, da'len." He says. "You take no insult from Sera, or me. Do not start to do so now."

"But _hahren_." She whines, and Solas stands up to move and stand near her.

" _Da'len_." He prods and she sighs, sounding like a belligerent youngling.

" _Fine_." She mumbles, and he leans over her to card his hand through her hair.

"Have you let it all out?" He asks her after a moment.

"Yes." She says. No, he translates.

"Then, seeing as I have you here and are so eager to out-wit our new resident advisor – " His lips twitch upwards, it was not as if he was doing much advising to begin with, anyway, mostly just research, " – perhaps we should return to your lessons on runes."

-

When the moment comes, Bull does not know why he looks to her. To the little elf bas saarebas.

Under the Qun, this girl would have been in chains, she would have been broken. He knows her well enough – knew her on _sight_ – to know that she would not survive the Qun. She is too bright, too strong – too Dalish.

He recalls the words that Dalish has often spoken – _bend but do not break_. _Vir Bor'assan_.

She was the First, the holder of the _Vir Tanadahl_. She would never have surrendered to the Qun.

She has too many questions, too much heart. She would bleed.

So he does not know why – when Gatt tells him to let the Chargers go – he turns to look at her.

She is his boss, yes. She employs him and ultimately it is her decision – it is _her_ Inquisition that the Qunari are seeking an alliance with. But he should -

He _is_ a Qunari. He _knows_ what should be done. He _should have known_. The Qun is clear.

But he turns to her and she looks at him with hard eyes and the voice that Sera and Varric call her _command voice_ and she says " _sound the retreat_ ".

Something in him – Hissrad, maybe, the man called Hissrad, lowers his head and the thing named The Iron Bull lets out a rattle against his bars – collapses in on itself. He still doesn't know if it was a good thing.

He blows the horn and that same thing inside of him eases, loosens, melts and spreads through his blood as he watches his Chargers, his boys, _his_ people retreat.

That same thing burns as Gatt looks at him.

"His name is _The Iron Bull_." Lavellan says, face and eyes hard. The lines of her tattoos twist her features, or maybe her features twist the tattoos, and looking at her he almost can't recognize her for a second. Fuck, Bull doesn't think he could recognize _himself_.

But her face is hard without being hard.

It's the same fucking face.

The same face that lights up like a flare whenever she finds something new, the same face that scrunches in confusion whenever someone uses an idiom she isn't used to, the same damn face that flushes pink-red in excitement as the dwarf tells her increasingly outrageous bullshit stories. It's the same face that's passed judgment on Avaar and Vints. It's the same face that peers up at him and tells him _good morning, The Iron Bull, did you sleep well, there's a storm coming, can you feel it, Blackwall says he can feel it in his bones, do you feel it in your bones can you teach me to feel it in my bones I just smell it in the air sometimes but Skyhold is so cold I can't smell things very well not that it seems to bother hahren but he knows everything because he's older than I am and so are you._

This is the face of a Keeper, he realizes. The face of a leader.

It's the face of someone putting herself on the line between a threat and her people. It's a face that says _this is mine, back the fuck off, before I make you_.

It isn't a twist to her lips or a dip in her brow. It's a coldness to her. It's a sharp smoothening of her features that leaves her looking terrifyingly blank. Factual.

The sky is blue. She has pointy ears. He has horns. The Storm Coast is Wet. Solas is bald. Varric is short. He is not Hissrad.

His name is The Iron Bull, she says. And everything – _everything_ – in him says.

Okay.

He turns away from Gatt, can't look at him, can't -

His head is spinning.

And her hand is so small on his arm – he could snap it off, and it wouldn't even take much effort. She trusts him too much, she trusts people too much, and it's going to hurt her someday but not if he can fucking help it. Not his boss. He's not going to let anything touch her and that's the Iron Bull talking. That's _him_ talking.

Fuck. He doesn't know when the hell The Iron Bull became real. He doesn't know when _he became The Iron Bull_.

But she said the words and now _he is real_.

Her hand is light but there and the Qun is not and his Chargers are alive and it's not okay. Hell, it's so fucking far from okay.

But _he's_ okay.

His Chargers are okay.

That's what counts.

-


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have experience." Lavellan says, "And I'd feel better with you at my side. Besides, it's not like I can bring Bull. As much as I want to. Josephine would kill me before Corypheus would ever get a shot."

**-**

Sometimes she reminds him of a cat. A kitten, maybe - not quite a cat _yet_. A small, bristling kitten that doesn't know better when it bats at a wolf or mountain lion's tail. One of the small ones, with its small tail sticking up like an exclamation point, with feet it's still trying to figure out. Getting indignant and looking at you as if to ask - can you believe _this_? - when it doesn't get the results it expected from a clumsy swat of the paw.

True to the image, Varric looks up in time to watch the Inquisitor carefully climb onto Bull's lap and onto his shoulders, twisting around to perch. Bull laughs and the Inquisitor laughs, too, and Bull's lieutenant yells in protest from where he's perched on - what's his name? - the quiet one's back.

"That's cheatin' chief!" Krem yells, "I can't bash her worship in the _face_!"

"Yeah, because you can't reach." Bull says, passing the Inquisitor a training shield. "Careful up there, boss."

Lavellan is a bit clumsy with the shield, but Bull trusts her, so she's probably not going to whack him on the face on accident. If she does, he probably wouldn't get mad anyway. Bull's good people like that.

Varric shakes his head, climbing up the numerous stairs towards the great hall. He looks up and sees Cullen looking dismayed - and that just completes the comparison, doesn't it? Kittens always have guardians who look exactly like _that_ when they find said kitten doing something they _really_ shouldn't be doing.

"Let her have her fun, Curly." Varric says as he passes the man, who's shoulders slump a little. "You're used to seeing the rest of us do worse shit."

"That is true." Cullen says. He sighs just as Bull lets out a war cry - the Inquisitor's hesitant warble joining in after a moment. Varric turns back to watch and sees the foursome enter some sort of strange clash of shields. With gravity and Bull on her side, she's actually making the lieutenant work for it a little. Though he's pretty sure that they're all holding back for the mage's sake. "Why can't any of you do _normal_ things?"

"I write books. I pay bills. That's normal."

Cullen snorts. "Of course. Forgive me for forgetting, Varric. I suppose that's what you're off to do, right now?"

"All this fresh air is making me dizzy." Varric replies, waving a hand. "I'm going inside before I go crazy."

-

"What do you and old elven glory even talk about, anyway?"  Sera asks as they climb out her window to lay down on the run-baked roof underneath it. "Every time I see you two talkin' all elfy you always end up arguin' and stomping off."

"We have _differing_ opinions." Lavellan says, sounding prim and buttoned up which is absolutely not like her and which means that she's as close to angry and hissing teakettle as anyone ever gets her. Sera nudges her as they sit down.

"About?"

"Old elven glory." Lavellan deadpans. "Namely what _kind_ of glory, how _elven_ it is, and exactly how _old_ it is."

"So basically everything you stand for."

"Essentially, yes." Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "He hates me because I'm Dalish and apparently Dalish are wrong about everything under the stars."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far, I mean, you guys had to get something right otherwise you wouldn't still be around climbing trees like squirrels." Sera says, twisting around to grab at the bowl of nuts and cookies that she'd gotten from one of the kitchen staff.

"He just gets irritated and I get irritated because he's talking at me like a bare-faced da'len - no offense, Sera - who hasn't earned her marks.' Lavellan frowns at her toes, wiggling them in her boots before sighing and curling up to unlace them. "And yes,I know that he's older and wiser and I should respect him more because he is a _hahren_ and I am a _da'len_ , but _still_. I was my Keeper's _first_ before I came here. I have to defend my people's way of thinking. It's not like - it's not like we have an instruction manual or anything."

"Preach it." Sera says. She might not exactly like the Dalish, but she doesn't really like Solas, either. People are just people trying to survive. As long as that doesn't bleed over onto her shit, she doesn't really mind. That being said - "If he's so uppity about it, why doesn't he just teach other elves?"

"Exactly what I keep saying! He just keeps dismissing me like I'm a blabbermouth kid." Lavellan huffs. "Let's not talk about Solas."

"No, let's talk about how to prank him." Sera says, grinning. "If he's gonna treat you like a kid, might as well act one, yeah?"

Lavellan sighs, but smiles. "You're a terrible friend."

-

"Well, we can't _all_ not go to the ball." Lavellan says, pinched look on her face. "Cassandra is coming for sure."

" _Are_ we sure?"  The woman mutters, scowl fixed on her features as she glares at Leliana who smiles as she passes by on the way out of the tavern. Whey they conduct business in a tavern is anyone's guess, but at least it's warm and there's a lot of alcohol on hand for meetings like this. "Leliana and Josephine are already going. I do not see what use I will be as well."

"You have experience." Lavellan says, "And I'd feel better with you at my side. Besides, it's not like I can bring _Bull_. As much as I want to. Josephine would kill me before Corypheus would ever get a shot."

The qunari laughs, smirking at the Seeker who grunts and leans back in her chair in dissatisfaction.

"So he's getting snuck in with the soldiers." Lavellan finishes. "As with Solas and Sera."

"Remind me why?" Dorian asks, "Also remind me why _I'm_ going?"

"Solas and Sera might get mistaken for slaves or servants or something. And I'd rather not have to deal with that, would _you_?" Lavellan says, turning to him. Sera mutters something under her breath and Solas has the grace not to say anything at all. Though he does shoot Dorian a smug look. "Besides, you always talk about how you miss civilization. This is as civilized as it gets."

Dorian groans while Bull and Sera exchange snickers.

"I regret ever saying _anything_ to you."

"There will be wine, gossip, and a lot of sneaking about." She says. "I'd bring Madame de Fer but I'm scared of what she'd do to me if I made her wear the uniforms we decided on."

"To _us_." Dorian corrects. He was as much guilty party in _that_ as anyone. Sighing. "I suppose that's why she's not here?"

Lavellan and Bull cast anxious glances around. "Let's just not talk about her." Lavellan whispers. "And I can't bring Cole because - well. I'm sorry, Cole, but you make people nervous."

"That's okay." Cole says, legs swinging from the rafters. "I don't like parties. People never say what they mean. Why is that? It would be so much simpler and they would stop _hurting_ themselves. But the colors are always so pretty. How can they be sad surrounded by so many pretty things?"

"And what about Blackwall?"

"Sneaking in with the forces." Lavellan says, turning back to Cassandra. "Besides, he said that it'd be better if you went instead of him."

"He volunteered you. Basically." Varric says. "Congratulations Seeker."

"And why is _he_ going?" Cassandra asks, cutting a glare at the dwarf.

"Because we need someone who knows how to pick a lock." Lavellan says, "Besides he's a famous author and you were the one who thought he was important enough to bring to the Conclave. Why _not_ bring him to a ball? And Varric always knows when people are lying. He has good people sense. I need people with good people sense."

"I also need new writing material."

You can almost hear Cassandra grinding her teeth.

"Very well." She says. "Dorian, Varric, and myself shall publicly accompany you to this ball. The rest of us will be snuck in with Leliana and Cullen's agents."

Sera and Bull exchange high fives. Solas breathes out a small sigh of relief. Dorian groans and puts his head in his hands.

"You owe me so much." Dorian says. Lavellan hooks her ankle around his under the table.

"Friendship." She says. He rolls his eyes skyward and nudges his leg against hers.

"Indentured _servitude_ , more like."

-

She curls her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, he smells like books and a little of dried paint and herbs. A little incense too.

"I can walk." She mumbles, and Solas laughs a little.

"Da'len, you've drunk enough to put a _Charger_ under." He says, "Forgive me if I don't quite trust you with stairs."

"That's mean, hahren." She mumbles, "You drank more than me, but you're not even swaying."

"I'm older. I am - used to such levels of festivity." Solas replies.

"You say that about everything." She whines, "Just drop me off at the Charger's tent, hahren. I'm heavy and it's a lot of stairs."

"I think I'll manage." Solas says, "I'd rather not leave you in a tent in the courtyard and have you trampled by drunken mercenaries later. It is not the most dignified ways to go, is it?"

She snickers into his shoulder, but it turns into a yawn partway through.

"I don't know how anyone does it." She yawns, "This drinking thing. It burns going down and it makes everything feel funny. It makes _people_ funny."

"It takes time to get used to."

"I don't think any of the Chargers can actually taste things anymore." She whispers at him, like it's a secret. "I think they burned all of their taste."

Solas' shoulder shake with laughter. "Oh?"

"Mhm." She says, shushing him, "Don't tell anyone I know their secret."

"I shall keep my silence, then."

" _Promise_?"

"I'm very good at keeping secrets, da'len."

"If you say you are." She mumbles, "I'm going to trust you, hahren, okay?"

"I know, da'len." Solas says, quieter as she drifts off into sleep. "I know."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is incredibly grateful it was someone like her who gained the mark. Someone with an open mind.

**-**

Lavellan is perched, curled up in on herself like one of those fancy breads from Val Royeaux, long and thin limbs curled up and crossed this way and that way in contortions that makes Dorian's back hurt just looking at her.

"Doing something interesting, I hope." Dorian says, and she tilts her head towards him, and untwists a little to reveal the small clipped section of papers she's been reading.

"Studying." She says, biting her lip, "Orlesian names. It's hard. They all sound the same."

"Mostly because they usually are." Dorian says, nudging her with one of the books he's been trying to figure out. It's something on Ferelden manners, if they have any. _Dog lords_. "Off the chair. Only I'm allowed to put my feet on it, thank you."

Lavellan rolls her eyes, but obligingly slithers off the chair for him. Instead she twists herself up on the floor. She's one of _those_ people, he thinks. Those people who move and jitter and twist up when they read in impossible figures and configurations. Next thing you know, she'll be upside down and hanging out a window peppering Dorian with questions about syntax.

"I need to have them memorized before the ball." She says, "I'm doing awfully at it."

"Maybe you just need some help." Dorian says, plucking the list from her fingers, then grimacing at it. "All of these? Really? You can't just know one or two?"

"These are the one or two that Josephine narrowed down for me." Lavellan mourns. "One or two _dozen_."

Dorian clicks his tongue. "You'll never get this. Their titles go on for _pages_."

"I know." Lavellan hits her head against his knee, then rubs her cheek against his thigh. "Dorian, what am I going to do? What if I accidentally call someone by the wrong title? Maybe I shouldn't talk at all. Do you think Josephine could announce me as mute? Or maybe unable to speak Orlesian?"

"You've talked to Orlesians before. People have heard you open your little heretic mouth." Dorian says, gently flicking the tip of her ear, "This would go better if you had pictures to go with the names, I should think. You're much better at faces than words."

"Probably." Lavellan says, resting her chin on his leg. Dorian winces because she is so very, _very_ pointy and boney. "What if _you_ memorize half and _I_ memorize half?"

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "I'm not following you around the entire time to whisper sweet titles and monikers in your ear, darling. People would talk more than they already do. And if I'm with you, however will I find targets of my own? No. I think, my friend, you are on your own with this one."

-

She's an endless spring of questions, one after another after another. It is refreshing. Even when she gets answer she does not like or understand, she takes it all in a stride and shrugs it off like water - accepts and moves on. She is -

Solas is incredibly grateful it was someone like her who gained the mark. Someone with an open mind.

Even if that mind tends to wander at times, he muses, as her attention wavers towards the trees outside.

"Would you like to go outside?" He asks her, and she blinks, head snapping back to him.

"What? No. Sorry. Please continue  - I was listening, I promise."

The thing is, Solas thinks as he returns to answering her question on Veilfire, that when her attention is on something it is on it. Fixed, focused. Incredibly so. It is almost intimidating to be the center of that focus. But one can only focus so intently on something for long, and that focus starts to waver - easily caught by -

Say -

A bird fluttering outside the window.

He watches her eyes slowly move towards the bird, snapping back towards him whenever she remembers herself, but inevitably getting caught by the fluttering's going on outside.

Solas almost wonders how she got through her questions with Cullen and Varric.

"Have you ever been this high up in the mountains before?" He asks, instead. And she shakes her head. "Come. Let us walk. The species here are quite different from what you would find in the Free Marches."

He stands up and she scrambles after him after a moment of watching the bird, and the two of them walk out of Haven to explore the nearby vegetation.

The Commander nods at him as they walk past the gates, and immediately she's pointing at trees and rocks and mountains -

What's that called hahren, do those mountains have a story, are there dwarves in those mountains, is there snow all the time, hahren, which way is the Free Marches from here, why does the elfroot here grow so well even though it's so _cold_ , what are those, what are _these_ , hahren what made those tracks, what's that sound, hahren that's the Iron Bull, he likes the article in front, have you ever met a qunari, are there stories of the qunari that you have found, who do you think is older our people or the qunari, I like him, he's nice, are all qunari that _loud_ , do you think he was lying about the pop corking thing, I don't really understand it, but he sounds like he's telling the truth, hello Blackwall, Solas why don't elves have beards like Blackwall's, are these too many questions, I'm sorry, did you have things to do, why do nugs have fingers?

-

Cullen can't help but let out a small yelp, startled along with the rest of the soldiers and workers around him when the Inquisitor drops from - he doesn't even _know_ where - and land-tuck-rolls to her feet next to him.

"Inquisitor." Cullen breathes out, eyes daring around to try and figure out where in the Maker's name she came from. "You - don't - that was dangerous."

Lavellan blinks at him, smiling, before helping the scouts pick up the reports they dropped and scattered when she landed among them.

"I made sure I wouldn't land on anyone. I timed it just right and everything." She says, helping a scout up and dusting her off.

"Well - yes, but I meant for _you_." Cullen breathes in, trying to control his racing heart. Maker this girl is a terror. "Were did you - ?"

"The bridge." She says, pointing at the crumbled architecture. "I jumped from there. It was faster than finding stairs. I wanted to talk to you and ask if you were settling in well. Also I've been walking around for two hours and I can't find Varric. Is that odd? Because I feel as though he shouldn't be that hard to find."

"Have you tried the tavern?"

"We have a _tavern_?" Her eyes are wide and accusing, like he's doing her a personal wrong by telling her what was – he thought – common knowledge. Cullen almost laughs.

"We have a tavern." It was one of the first places they set up, actually. It's good for morale. Cullen points in the direction of said tavern. "He's probably there with the Chargers, telling stories and whatnot."

"Oh." Lavellan hums, "Alright. Well. Hello, Commander Cullen."

He can't help the small smile, "Hello, Inquisitor."

She smiles, "Are you and your men settling in well?"

"As well as we can, your worship." He says, gesturing to the table covered in plans and reports. "We'll have this place up and running within a few weeks. If anything it should at least be slightly less run down the next time you return from your travels."

"I _like_ this place." She says, fingers lacing behind her back as she look up at the main hall. "It has character. And now it's ours." She turns to look at him. "The place where the earth holds the sky."

"Skyhold."

She nods.

It is - a fitting name. They are, after all, trying to hold the sky together.

"Tavern you said?" She starts walking towards the narrow stairs that would lead up towards said building with a soft huff. "Why don't I ever know these things?"

-

Blackwall watches her pick out bits of fish from her bowl with long fingers, eating and sucking sticky fingers as she and the dwarf talk circles around each other. He's fairly certain that the lass knows he's only playing with her, but she doesn't mind so much as long as someone gives her an answer. The dwarf, that he knows of, is the only one capable of keeping up with her rapid pace of questions. Even the other elf - the one they call Solas has to tell her to slow down with gentle words and slow gestures on the occassion.

Varric deals with her and her curiosity well.

"Call it experience." Varric had said as she flew off to go and question the Seeker on this, that, and everything else under the sun. "I've dealt with elves like her before."

Blackwall, himself, feels like she's spun him around with her questions and answers and off-hand comments. She's like a wind storm, rustling everything up with barely a moment's notice before disappearing like she was never there.

"She does know you're joking, right?" He had asked and Varric had laughed.

"We'll find out, won't we? She's not dumb, she's a bright kid. I figure Poppy will puzzle it out on her own later, then come back with more questions. It keeps her going, see?"


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Must we do this? _Every_ time?" Dorian sighs, "You couldn't at least give the poor man some warning? Look at him, Lavellan, have some mercy on Blackwall. He's actually got honor and a sense of shame and moral decency."

**-**

"She makes us all better. Like jagged stones, she pulls us under and we flow through her or she flows through us and then we come out smooth and useful and _good_." The spirit says, fingers tugging at the edge of his new hat. One of the boss got him, probably. She likes taking the kid fancy places to get fancy hats. "Who is The Iron Bull,  he is real now, she has made him out of me, who will she make next? She is a Maker and she is the shaper of stones and earth and - "

"Got it." Bull says, cutting the kid off before he can say some really weird shit that Bull isn't even sure he knows about. There are things that go through people's heads - things people don't know. Don't want to know. Things that they hide from themselves if only so they can survive being who they are. "Nice hat."

"Thank you. I like the colors. I think I'm going to give it to the Commander." Cole says, taking off the hat and looking oddly small and _normal_ without it as he runs the brim through his fingers. "Soft, the color of his sister's eyes, the color of his sister's eyes and the blue flowers he would bring her. Does she still like the blue flowers - I can never remember the name - blue like her eyes, I miss her, she has children now, I hope they love her the way she deserves, I did not love her well enough, I miss her, but I do not miss her _enough_."

Bull tries his best to ignore the things Cole says about other people. It's not right. Not his right, at least.

"You go do that." Bull says, giving the kid a careful pat on the back, and Cole gives him one of those wobbling smiles. The ones that he isn't sure how to use or how they should look or feel because the kid isn't used to smiling because he's happy, because someone else is trying to make him feel good. "You're an alright kid, Cole, you know that, right?"

Cole just looks at him beneath that mess of hair and disappears.

A few minutes later, Cole returns with his normal hat on.

"You are a very warm person, the Iron Bull." Cole says - and he's one of the few people who always tack on the article. He says the name carefully, like a title instead of a name. "You know that you're alright, too, don't you? You _are_. You're _all_ right."

-

Blackwall averts his eyes and Dorian sighs at the predictability of this as Lavellan's clothing flies off and she slips into the hot spring like a fish.

"Must we do this? _Every_ time?" Dorian sighs, "You couldn't at least give the poor man some warning? Look at him, Lavellan, have some mercy on Blackwall. He's actually got honor and a sense of shame and moral decency."

Dorian ducks a spray of water that Lavellan pushes at him as she laughs and ducks under. Blackwall clears his throat.

"I think I'm going to go stand watch." Blackwall says, lips twitching upwards. "Should I tell the Iron Bull to stay away?"

"No. No." Dorian sighs. The qunari may flirt and be, perhaps, one of the most shameless and sexual people Dorian has met in his entire life - and he has met some people who are quite _out there_ , thank you - but everyone knows that the man deeply cares for the Inquisitor's well fare. He would not look - or perhaps if he would, he would not act on her like _that_.

Lavellan's dark head pops up near him and he turns to glance at her.

"It's as if you relish in reminding people that you're a heathen who frolics around the woods." He says, going about gathering her clothes - sighs when he sees her smalls stuck in a tree branch. "Sometimes I feel like the responsible one between us and that is a _terrible_ feeling, I want you to know. I hope you feel good about yourself. Making _me_ be responsible."

"Perish the thought." Lavellan laughs, resting her arms and head on a rock. "You're so - " She waves a hand and wrinkles her nose. "Shems are just strange."

"No, _you're_ strange. Glorious and strange and all sorts of odd things that shouldn't be as lovely as they are on you. Own your strangeness. Still." Dorian sits on a rock, well away from her because he knows that if he sits too close she'd just splash at him like a child, getting his clothes soaked. Or worse, she'd pull him in. He sets about taking off his clothing, carefully checking them over for holes or stains, folding and setting them aside. "I can't believe that you somehow managed to pass off as _civilized_."

Lavellan laughs, and he dunks her under - gently, of course, he is, after all, a gentleman - earning a swat to his side as she slips off and wades towards a deeper part of the lake.

"Don't worry, Dorian, I'll have you being Dalish and proper in no time." Lavellan says, stark naked and gleaming as she floats on her back. Dorian rolls his eyes skyward and laughs.

Dorian casts some mild heating glyphs around the area, especially towards the waterfall, before sinking down and attempting to scrub some crusted mud and dirt out of his hair.

"Oh, no doubt about it, my dear. Next thing you know, you'll have me frolicking about the woods and worshipping deer and bowing to wolves."

"We don't _frolic_ , Dorian. I keep telling you."

"I'll believe you when you stop dashing off to pick herbs and flowers at random."

"It was Crystal Grace and everyone knows those are useful for medical purposes!"

"They were _bluebells_ and we all know it. You just thought they were _pretty_."

-

Vivienne's arm is warm and strong underneath her palm as she unsteadily wobbles - like some newborn halla - on the small heels that Vivienne had her put on.

"There we go, that's it, my dear. One foot after another." Vivienne says, pleased as she gently eases Lavellan's death grip on her arm to her hand. "You've got it. Just watch, soon we'll have you in the most charming shoes. They make your legs look spectacular."

"Okay." Lavellan's voice wobbles as much as she does as she does her best not to wave her arms around like a windmill to gain her balance. Her ankles feel like liquid and her feet feel pinched. This is a thousand times worse than the boots. She just got used to the _boots_.

"Now shall we try the stairs?" Vivienne says, gesturing towards said stairs and Lavellan feels herself almost swallow her own tongue.

" _Stairs_?"

She can barely walk in a straight line and her knees are knocking together -she doesn't think she'll be able to handle stairs. Creators, she's going to fall down and tumble straight into the main hall in front of everyone.

Vivienne looks amused, "Well, yes, dear, stairs. Come now, they're not so hard."

Lavellan chokes back a whimper and breathes deep. She is the Inquisitor. She's faced demons. And some dragons. She's faced templars. She can handle stairs. _Probably_.

She wobbles - the click-click of her shoes making her wince and startle a little - and latches onto the guard rail. She has no idea how Vivienne does this. There are heels on her boots that are taller than the ones she's in right now. Her boots! And she goes into battle with them!

Shem women are _amazing_. And terrifying. This explains Cullen. This explains _everything about Cullen_ , now that she thinks about it. Mythal's mercy, he's been surrounded in terrifying shem women all his life.

First his sister – who's letters sound terrifying just from the glimpse she's caught of them, then the _Hero of Ferelden_ , then _Hawke_ , then _Meredith_ , now Leliana and Josephine -

This is why he always looks so haggard, most likely.

Lavellan wobbles her way down the stairs, and it takes a painfully long time, and she winces a little with every step, but Madame de Fer is nothing if not patient and enduring.

"For someone who has never worn shoes in her life," Vivienne says as they make it to the library, "You're doing extraordinarily well at this."

"Thank you." She says, and she's doing a little better on flat surfaces, she _thinks_. She peers over the railing of the archive and tries to see if she can find Solas to rescue her from this. She knows Dorian would leave her to her fate - some friend _he_ is - but Solas would help her. Her hahren would take some pity on her, he always tries to help her when she gets swept up into these shem customs. Usually, at least. Mostly. More often than not. Though he might tease her about it for a while. Sadly he must be out meditating or getting fresh air because the rotunda is empty.

"Shall we try making it to the Ambassador?" Vivienne asks.

Lavellan doesn't want to disappoint her, but at the same time -

"Maybe next time?" Her feet are going to kill her. She feels like that girl in the story Varric told her. The one about the girl who turned human and then turned to sea foam. She attempts to straighten up and not look like she's bursting out of her skin to take these things off and toss them over the battlements.

Vivienne can probably tell. Creators, anyone could tell, but Madame Vivienne just smiles at her in that mysterious way of hers and nods her head. "Keep the shoes, dear. You'll need them when you practice your waltz, later."

Dance in these shoes? Lavellan is fairly sure her eyes are popping out of her head, but Madame Vivienne is already sweeping her way out of the room.

Mythal's mercy - if she has to dance in these shoes her feet will fall off. No - worse, she'll take the toes of anyone she dances with first. She steps on enough feet and kicks shins enough without the shoes, oh - Cullen and Dorian are never going to forgive her.

-

Lavellan's tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she patiently endures Josephine's crash course on Orleisan manners. But Dorian can tell she's getting impatient from the way her eyes keep darting from Josephine - attempting to pay attention - the food that they're hopefully going to eat sometime tonight, Dorian - half incredulous, as if asking if he can believe this, and half pleading for him to make some sort of excuse for them to escape -, and the door - no doubt trying to consider if she can make a run for it and hide somewhere until the good Ambassador gives up for the night. Dorian subtly shakes his head. She'd never make it to the door and he's not going to be able to join after if she goes through the window.

Unlike her, _he's_ not about to be jumping around Skyhold like he has a death wish.

Lavellan squirms in her seat a little, and Dorian slowly starts to tune the Ambassador out - this, after all, isn't for _him_. It's for her and he's just here for moral support and a chance to eat like someone civilized for a change.

"But it's a ball." Lavellan whispers in meek protest as she attempts to make her way through the soup course. "I'm not going to be sitting down to eat."

Josephine laughs, gentle hand on the elf's shoulder as she guides the Inquisitor's hand towards the right spoon. "The ball will not be the end of it, I assure you, Inquisitor. There will be dances and dinners and tea parties and all sorts of soirees you will be invited to."

"Oh." Lavellan droops a little. "Can't we send someone in my place?"

"Not always." Josephine says, "You're doing well. That's right, small sips, quietly."

Dorian hums, amused, "Don't worry, my dear, I'll be there to make sure you don't fall asleep and drown in your soup."

"You just want to make sure I bring you along so you can get drunk." Lavellan mourns, pauses and adds on, "And so you can laugh at me and tell Varric about how terribly I do."

"I do need _some_ excitement in my life." Dorian drawls, "And what's more exciting than inserting some drama into the wagging tongues of the Orlesian nobility? Tell me, ambassador, are there rumors about the sweet and naive Inquisitor and her roguishly handsome, charming, and sinister Tevinter ally?"

Josephine raises an eyebrow, "There may be, small as they are."

Dorian reaches over to nudge Lavellan's hand with the back of his own. " _Aha_! See? We're probably the most exciting thing to ever happen to these poor sods in _centuries_."

Lavellan snorts a laugh as Josephine shakes her head and gestures for the soup dishes to be cleared away so they can continue onto the next course. "I do admit that some of the stories told about you are colorful. And extremely entertaining for those who know you."

"Do I get to hear some of these rumors?"

"Maybe." Josephine says, "Can you tell me about the background of the Council of Heralds?"

"I can try?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please, Solas, tell me that I'm addled from being indoors too long. I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing, am I?"

**-**

Dorian stops dead in the middle of walking down the stairs to the courtyard, Solas almost bumping into him – distracted by paging through the book they're arguing through – and chokes.

"Please, Solas, tell me that I'm addled from being indoors too long. I'm not seeing what I _think_ I'm seeing, am I?"

There's a silence where he _knows_ that the elf is looking up and carefully thinking over his options.

"I think that we are both addled, Dorian." He says, slowly. "Depending on whether you think you are seeing what I am seeing."

Dorian, on his part, is hoping they're seeing completely different things and that would mean that someone – Sera, maybe Vivienne if she was feeling in a particularly nasty mood – slipped something into their wine.

"I." Dorian begins, closing his eyes and covering them with a hand. He breathes. Then opens his eyes again. "I am seeing our dear Inquisitor sitting on Grim's shoulders, one eye covered with a plaid bandana and waving a training sword at Blackwall and Dalish."

"Then no." Solas says, "We are not addled. Unfortunately."

Dorian follows Solas down the steps towards the group.

"What," Dorian calls out, as soon as they're in earshot. "Are you _doing_?"

"Practicing with an impaired depth perception." Lavellan says.

And the thing about it, is that she just sounds so _serious_ and _well meaning_ about the whole thing that it almost makes _sense_. Except it doesn't. It _will never make sense_.

"While sitting on top of a man's shoulders?"

"Yes."

Dorian turns to Blackwall, because at least this man makes sense half the time. Except Blackwall just shrugs at him -

"Do you want to take over?" He asks, holding out the shield – with a crudely drawn target, it's lopsided and vaguely reminiscent of an squinting eye – towards Dorian.

Dorian channels his inner seeker. " _Ugh_."

"Let me guess," Solas says, looking fond of his star pupil – his _only_ pupil, really – "The Iron Bull suggested it?"

Lavellan shakes her head, "No. Krem did."

She points towards the shade of the tavern. Krem is leaning against a wall, nursing a bottle of wine. He flashes them a smirk, holding the bottle up in greeting.

Dorian goes over to him immediately because Krem _alwa_ ysmakes some sort of sense. He's perhaps the only person in this blasted castle who does. _Southerners_.

"Do you mind explaining this?" Dorian says, waving towards the group of four – Blackwall retreating with grace, leaving Solas holding a shield and looking quite bemused by this turn of events. Does the man even _know_ how to use a shield? Maker – it's not his problem. It isn't. If he decided to pick it up, he should at least have some knowledge of how to use the damn thing.

He's spent a good portion of his life sleeping in battlefields, he's probably picked up some clue about how to use it by now.

Krem smirks, passes Dorian the wine.

He takes that as a sign and – he will be terribly ashamed of this later, it is such a _good vintage_  – gulps.

Krem nods. "Revenge."

"What?"

"Revenge." Krem repeats, looking particularly pleased with himself. "Against the Chief."

"You are using the Inquisitor for petty revenge against your boss?"

"He started it."

Dorian is actually surrounded in _children_.

"I don't doubt it." He admits, holding a hand out for the bottle, which Krem surrenders with grace before heading into the tavern to get another. "The things you people make me _deal with_."

-

"Well, we can't always get what we want." Lavellan declares as they set up camp in the middle of the _Mire_. The fucking _Mire_.

Bull is fairly certain that there is _no one_ who likes this place. The fucking undead are probably crawling out of the Marshes to try and hitchhike a way out of here. Or get more people to join their misery.

"In example," She continues, "I want to not have to wear shoes everywhere we go. I want people to stop saying my hart screams – _he doesn't_  – "

He does. He really, _really_ does.

" – and I'd very much like for people to stop making fun of me for picking medicinal herbs when we travel. Little things like that."

Blackwall snorts a laugh as she and Sera continue glaring at each other.

"The point is we don't always get what we want but we deal with it." Lavellan says, "So _deal with it_."

Sera waves a hand at the Mire. "How _do we deal with this?_ "

"Pretend you're anywhere but here. It's what I've been doing."

"That's one damn strong imagination. Also you've walked off of four bridges. _Four_." Sera says, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers in the Inquisitor's face. "We had to fish you out every time. You've probably swallowed half the bog by now. How's that going for you by the way?"

"I feel hydrated." Lavellan deadpans.

Sera makes a disgusted noise.

"I am never, _ever_ letting you drag me out here again." Sera says, jabbing her finger into Lavellan's chest. "No matter what promises you make. And you owe me so much for this. _Bogs. Undead. Weird mountain people_ _who look as mangy as Blackwall_."

"Hey!"

"Blackwall isn't _mangy_. He's had a _rough life_."

-

He wasn't sure at first – thought maybe he was reading into things. Seeing something there. Which would've been awkward because she's – what. Half his age? Around half. And tiny. Really tiny. And wide eyed and soft and generally _young_ all around. Not really – uh. Not really his _thing_.

But he's pretty sure that it's just a thing with her. It's not her coming on to him or whatever.

Elves just don't have personal space.

Sera has it – but she likes to make people uncomfortable, push buttons. Solas has it, but he generally has a bubble pretty wide that demands the space. And he says he wasn't Dalish.

Lavellan doesn't have a bubble.

You could be sitting on her and her only protest would be you're too heavy.

Bull knows this because Sera did sit on her and Lavellan tried to make room but fell down instead. Taking two chairs, Solas, Dorian, and Sera down with her.

Dalish has one, but it's pretty small. Probably because she's spent so much time with humans.

Bull almost mourns. They've ruined her.

But Lavellan doesn't have this bubble. She'll stand far away or she'll stand close. Real close. Sometimes so close that he's practically looking down his nose to see her wide eyes and curious-hungry face.

She doesn't even realize it makes people uncomfortable. Probably.

Just trails after them and stops right in their face or right against their backs and sides like a little duck. That's _imprinted_.

Bull snorts at the image because it _works_ , but she's also supposed to be _their_ leader. Leading from the back? Whatever.

He watches as she flitters around the soldiers, slipping into the Commander's shadow. It speaks volumes about him that he hears her coming, lets her slip behind him, and waits for her to speak first. Some people wouldn't see her coming. Most don't wait for her to start conversation. Almost all of them don't let her linger in their blind spots.

The Commander is a good soldier, and good people.

She finishes looking around, looking at whatever's caught her interest, before slipping around to the Commander's front.

Bull can't see the guy's face from here, but he's willing to bet it's polite and encouraging. Like he said, _good people_.

He looks away because he knows what happens next.

There's a process to the thing. Lavellan wanders around Haven's grounds doing odd things, following random people like a little shadow, then goes to find someone she thinks has authority on a subject and picks their brain at rapid fire then disappears to start the process over.

So far Bull's been asked about – aside from the obvious things, Qunari, the Chargers, the Qun – axes, mountains, beaches, sea shells, bread, leather, rabbits, and shirts. He's overheard her talking to the Seeker about the Chantry, lyrium, Nevarra, bears, human cosmetics, straw, dragons – dunno why she's asking her about dragons, but it perked his interest and got him and the Seeker opening a rapport – and pomegranates.

So far the most hilarious one he's heard was her asking the Commander about _his vows_.

Never in his life has he seen a man – a full grown man in armor, who stands a good half foot taller than the little elf – backpedal so hard. It was hilarious. Just for that he told Dalish to invite her for stories and talk at the tavern. He wasn't sure how well she'd react to him inviting her, at the time.

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know, when I went to that Conclave this isn't what I was expecting." Lavellan sighs as Dorian throws a barrier up around them.

**-**

"I'd like to open this meeting by lodging a formal complaint about how I've almost been assassinated four times since we came here." She says, "I want to go back to Skyhold."  
  
"Four times?" Dorian hums, "Well aren't we getting _popular_. Someone's only tried to poison me only once so far. But I'm fairly certain that might have been for you, as I was looking through the wine bottles they left in your quarters. Damned waste of perfectly good wine. Criminal, really."  
  
"I'd like to open this meeting by lodging a formal complaint about how I've almost been assassinated _five_ times since we came here. I really, _really_ want to go back to Skyhold." Lavellan corrects herself, "Cullen wants to go back too. He misses his dog."  
  
"I don't have a dog."  
  
"You have a _kennel_ full of dogs."  
  
"Those are the property of the Inquisition - "  
  
"Do you want to go back or not?" She hisses, turning back to Josephine with wide eyes. "Is it even wise to take the Commander away from Skyhold?"  
  
Josephine looks amused. Lavellan takes that to mean that they're probably _not_ going back to Skyhold. "Commander Cullen is a grown man, he won't suddenly expire if we take him out of Skyhold for a little while."  
  
"We don't know that for _sure_. I mean - " She waves a hand. "I'm almost completely certain he's allergic to not being in armor."  
  
Dorian snickers. Cullen holds a remarkably straight face. She wonders why he isn't any better at Wicked Grace.  
  
"Your success at Halamshiral was a great achievement for the Inquisition, as well as your own reputation, Inquisitor." Josephine says, "But it does not end there. That was only the beginning, alliances need time and effort to grow. We have to nurture them and that means allowing these people to speak to you. And the Commander." Josephine's smile turns onto Cullen - mischievous and sly -, "I almost dare say our dear Commander is just as, if not more, popular than you are."  
  
"Maker." Cullen's face cracks into horror and dismay. "I just stood there and glared at people. I barely even spoke two sentences to anyone. What's wrong with these people?"  
  
" _Everything_ , depending on who you ask." Dorian says.  
  
"Why are _you_ even here?"  
  
"Moral support." Dorian replies, flashing the man a grin as he pours a glass of non-poisoned wine.  "And to help Josephine wrangle the both of you into something presentable."  
  
The two of them blanche.  
  
"I am the Commander of the Inquisition army." Cullen says, "I don't have _time_ to be paraded around. This is _ridiculous_."  
  
"If you want to keep that army outfitted and running you do." Dorian replies, looking at Cullen but pointing a finger at Lavellan, "And you - you _owe_ me. So sit your little elven butt back down and don't even think about jumping out that window. This is why Josephine picked me to come rather than Madame de Fer. I _know_ you. Best friends, remember?"  
  
-  
  
"Your worship," Krem says, nodding to her in greeting when she meanders her way over to the training yard from the quarter master's building. "Good morning."  
  
"Good morning, Krem." She replies, making an apple appear out of nowhere and holding it out to him. "Apple? People keep handing food to me and I don't know why. I've already eaten."  
  
Probably because she looks like a mildly strong wind could blow her over. Krem does _not_ say that, but he takes the apple because he's hungry and Bull doesn't fuck around when he's training.  
  
"Thank you." Krem says, biting into the apple, sucking at the juice. "You're up early."  
  
"War room meeting." She says, then points over her shoulder back towards the quarter master's, "And plans for a mage tower to be built. I don't know why people keep asking me about my opinions on buildings. I'd never been inside a building until recently." She looks faintly puzzled, "They're all so _square_."  
  
Krem snorts, wiping at some juice trailing down his chin.  
  
"That they are."  
  
"Except for when they're _round_. Like the rotunda. How do they get so perfectly round? They aren't even a little lopsided. And I think that's amazing. Don't you think that's amazing? Shem buildings are amazing." She points towards the training ring. "What are they doing? Is that another exercise - like the trust fall?"  
  
"No." Krem says, slowly working his way through her words. "They're grapplin', it's close combat fighting. Unarmed. Some say it's unrefined stuff. But you never know when you'll get in a close quarters fight. Fights aren't always that fancy."  
  
"Oh." Lavellan says, leaning on the wooden fence. "Why are they shirtless? Aren't they cold?"  
  
Because they're _morons_ , that's why. Krem is not going to insult the Inquisition forces to the Inquisitor's face. He's certainly  not going to do it within earshot of anyone of significant rank. He's too hung over for that nonsense.  
  
"You can get hot exercising. All that sweat and adrenaline." Krem waves a hand. "They'll probably get cold afterwards, though. Besides, some people enjoy the view. Makes a good impression. I guess."  
  
Krem gestures towards a slowing crowd of ladies who hide their faces behind fans as they make their way up the stairs towards the main hall, turning back to the training ring to titter every few steps.  
  
Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "What view? You see the view from the battlements." She points. "Mountains and sunrise and snow. It's all very pretty, you should watch the sunrise from the battlements, Krem. It makes the ice glitter. I've got to go now, please enjoy that apple. Cole says that the fruits like to be eaten, they like helping others. I'll talk to you later!"  
  
-  
  
"How drunk are you?" Cullen asks, eyeing the alarming amount of bottles that clutter the table in front of the two women.  
  
"Not drunk enough." Lavellan hiccups, eyes drooping shut as she sways. "Apparently."  
  
"Not drunk enough for _what_?" Cullen turns to Cassandra, hopes she has a better answer. At least she can hold her liquor. He's mildly horrified to realize that the Seeker is _drunk_.  
  
He's never seen her drunk before, and he realizes - in hindsight - this is something he's never wanted to see. She's rather intimidating enough as it is when she's sober. She's his friend and a valued confidant. But the woman is absolutely terrifying.  
  
"They want me to be the next Divine." Cassandra says, slowly, waving to Cabot for more drinks. Cullen turns and signs for him to cut them off. But apparently being the Commander of the Inquisition means nothing in the face of the Seeker and the Herald of Andraste. Cabot shrugs and brings three pints. Cullen sits down and supposes this means he's going to be the responsible one, tonight.  
  
He might have to ask Bull to carry Cassandra, though.  She's very _tall_.  
  
" _Me_. As the _Divine_." Cassandra repeats, leaning forward. "That is - are they _insane_?"  
  
"Possibly." Cullen shift, uncomfortable - he's not sure if Cassandra would make a good Divine. But he's fairly certain she'd be a _fair_ one. A just one. Better than Vivienne, at least. At least he shares some ideas for the Chantry with Cassandra. And he can actually stand talking to her.  
  
Madame de Fer just puts him on edge. It's probably on purpose, too.  
  
Lavellan hiccups, and slowly puts her head down on her folded arms. A few moments later she's sound asleep.  
  
He catches Krem's eye over her shoulders. The man is clearly laughing at him.  
  
Cullen sighs. "Are you alright?"  
  
"No. The Divine is dead. There is a hole in the sky. Varric knows I read his romance serial." Cassandra grimaces. Cullen almost smiles. Everyone knows Cassandra reads Varric's romance serial. "They want me to be the next Divine. I fought six bears for absolutely _no_ reason when we were last in the Hinterlands."  
  
Cullen sits there and patiently listens as she tacks on more and more things to her list, ending with - "And Dorian said that the romance was trite and entirely over done. What does _he_ know?"  
  
At some point, someone - Krem, probably - called Dorian over to carry Lavellan back to her room, which is what inspired the tail end of Cassandra's rant. And half of the tavern has emptied out for the night. The other half usually sleeps here, or just passes out.  
  
Cullen - and maybe Cabot - are perhaps the only two completely sober people in this room. Cole, if he's up here, might count. He's never seen the spirit eat anything.   
  
"Maybe you should sleep on it. Think of a way to show Dorian up." Cullen suggests because really, the only way to placate is a woman like Cassandra when she's drunk is go along with it. At least, that's how it's always been in his experience. Then again, his experience is Kirkwall which was full of people like Hawke and Isabella. Cullen grimaces because he's fairly sure that the type of women he finds himself surrounded with say something very telling about him and he doesn't want to know. "What does he know? What's he comparing it to? He must have read something - or enough romances - for him to form an opinion of whether that particular - _ah_ \- trope was used improperly."  
  
"You're right." Cassandra says, listing to the side before correcting herself as she slowly rises to her feet. Cullen has to hand it to her, she has more grace she has drunk than most people he's met. "Thank you, Cullen."  
  
"You're welcome." He says, and then stands to walk her back to her rooms on the pretense that he's stopping by the barracks. The Seeker would never consent to being walked anywhere otherwise.  
  
-  
  
"On a relative scale of one to ten, one being so inoffensive you didn't even realize there was something there to be offended by, and ten being so terribly egregious you're ready to set something on fire while yelling at the top of your lungs, how would you rate our current situation?" Lavellan says, "I'll go first. I'm going to say a pretty solid seven, but the way things are looking I can persuaded to go to eight."  
  
"Nine." Varric says after a moment, releasing a final bolt from Bianca, "And I'm from Kirkwall. I like to think I have a thick skin. A solid nine."  
  
"You are all children and alarmingly hapless." Dorian snorts, "Six. Five, maybe, if these outfits weren't so hideous and if I haven't heard so many whispers about blood magic. Also who even wears peacock feathers like that? _No one_. No one does."  
  
"Well, apparently someone must have otherwise you wouldn't be so scandalized over it, Sparkler."  
  
"What about you, Cassandra?"  
  
The woman just wipes a smear of blood off of her face and yanks her sword out of a corpse. "Five. Better than Nevarra, worse than Val Royeux."  
  
Lavellan nods in semi-understanding. "Are assassins always this colorfully dressed?  
  
"In Orlais, probably. Maker forbid that they might possibly die in something unfashionable." Varric shrugs, "They have to look their best."  
  
"The only upside I can find to these stupid uniforms is that they hide blood disturbingly well." Dorian says, examining himself, "I can't even see the splatter I know is there - because it is wet and warm and _disgusting_ \- on my trousers. Well done to that tailor. We need to wear black and red more often. I'm fairly certain people would stop looking at us like lunatics whenever we go places."  
  
"People don't look at us like lunatics."  
  
"A Tevinter mage, a dwarven rogue, a Nevarran Seeker of Truth, and a Dalish mage walk into a bar covered in blood - do you know how this one goes?" Dorian drawls, raising an eyebrow at the Inquisitor, who puffs out one cheek and makes a face at him.  
  
Varric snorts as Cassandra and Lavellan start picking the pockets of the Venatori for messages or clues.  
  
"Not _well_." Varric says, "That was Redcliffe, right?  
  
"Crestwood - but yes, in hindsight. That can _also_ apply to Redcliffe and about half of the places we've gone where there's civilization." Dorian wrinkles his nose, " _Fasta vass_ , is that more Venatori? Where are they coming from? What, are they hiding in the _curtains_?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Sparkler. If they were hiding in the curtains where would all the lovers go?" Varric aims, "If you two are done picking pockets, it's time for round two."  
  
"You know, when I went to that Conclave this isn't what I was expecting." Lavellan sighs as Dorian throws a barrier up around them.  
  
"Fighting Venatori in the middle of Halamshiral with a Tevinter, dwarf, and Seeker of Truth?" Cassandra asks, bracing her shield.  
  
"Picking the pockets of shem corpses in the middle of a ball while wearing a shem army uniform. But yes, that too."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Did you not get to say no?" He whispers, something like anger burning up his throat. Could be vomit. Could be the shit he's been drinking. It's one of those mystery concoctions - the one they found at the Storm Coast with a warning label.

He's drunk and he's morose and he's _weepy_. Maker, he's a grown man who's developed magic to warp time and - _sometimes_ \- space itself. He doesn't want to talk about this, but he knows his friend, and she's not going to let him alone until he does. She's the kind of person who won't let him drink himself into a numb stupor and possibly early grave – early, if one weren't considering the fact that it is currently the end of the world as they know it.

Bless her, _really_ , but all the same - shit, his luck.  
  
Of course he'd somehow make a friend who'd actually care enough to make him want to talk his feelings out. Of _course_.  
  
"You wouldn't understand." He says, and he's fairly sure that it doesn't come out slurred. Practice talking drunk and what-not. "You're Dalish. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken - freedom and all that. Do you even have sexual perversions among the Dalish?" He squints, waves his hand, he can't imagine they do. After all, Lavellan seems pretty much alright with everything she's heard around him and the Sera and Bull thus far. Somewhat ignorant and unaware of what exactly they're talking about, but he figures she's gotten the gist of it. And she hasn't told any of them off yet.  
  
Her fingers are feather light on him, and the only reason he notices is because he's staring at his hands. And her hand is so very small and pale against his own skin as she curls her fingers with his.  
  
"Perhaps we have more in common than you think, Dorian." She says, and he can't bring himself to look up at her. "Dorian - did you know that my people once used magic like breathing? Every single one of us was a mage – or at least, that's what all the stories tell us. Every single one connected to the Fade. It's not like that anymore. There are so few of us, Dorian." Her thumb makes small circles on his skin. "I - You're right. I don't know what it's like to live in Tevinter. To have expectations like Archon and a house's reputation on me. But I know what it's like to - to be forced into relationships you don't want." Her voice wavers and he squeezes her fingers.  
  
He looks up and her mouth is small and tight and her brow is furrowed, she's somehow looking at him and looking at something far away from here.  
  
"Among the Dalish it is - well. We breed for magic, too, Dorian." Her voice lowers, "To keep it strong, to keep it alive, the Keepers and Firsts and Seconds - all of us are shuffled from one clan to the next every few years to. To." She makes a vague gesture. "Keep the race going. As it were. Um. If Sera were to phrase it - to revive the _old elven glory_." Her laugh is strained, light and fragile. Dorian swallows. "So yes. I can understand that part. And I'm sorry, Dorian. I'm sorry because you were able to say no and they tried to take that choice from you."  
  
The words repeat in his head -  
  
"Did you not get to say no?" He whispers, something like anger burning up his throat. Could be vomit. Could be the shit he's been drinking. It's one of those mystery concoctions - the one they found at the Storm Coast with a warning label.  
  
Lavellan's eyes slide away from him. And he closes his eyes and brings their fingers to his forehead.  
  
"What a pair we make." He whispers, laughing a little. He feels her head against his, smells the soft smell of the lavender soap Josephine gave her. Her hand curls around the nape of his neck, playing with the hair there.  
  
"I _love_ you, Dorian." She whispers, "I love _you_."  
  
It doesn't make everything better. Dorian doesn't think there's _anything_ you can really say to make this better.  
  
Hey, sorry you're being used to breed little mage babies like cattle because that's what the laws of your society dictate.

And sorry that it went so terribly wrong that your own parents tried to use blood magic on you to force you into it.

Yes, it just doesn't seem to roll off the tongue.  
  
It's different. What she says is different. What they both mean is different.  
  
Dorian wishes that the sky didn't have to tear open - that he didn't have to leave Tevinter, that none of this had to happen for him to find her. To find this precious friend.  
  
"I love _you_ , too."  
  
-  
  
She names him a free man. But he will never be free. Not really.  
  
The people who he would readily name companions, friends, look at him with hurt and betrayal in their eyes. All of them except for Sera, Cole, and the Inquisitor.  
  
Sera - "I knew there was something off about you!" - is content to live and let live.  The spirit has always known, and never saw anything to forgive.  
  
Bu her - the _Herald_ -  
  
His jaw hurts from clenching, hands forced still at his sides as she meanders around the stables to curl up on the hay for a nap. Just like before. Just like he's still Warden Blackwall in her eyes. Like she didn't use her underworld contacts to smuggle him out of Val Royeaux and then proclaim him free with full pardon. Absolution of his crimes.  
  
Her small hands tuck up by her face as she curls up, eyes slipping closed as she settles under the slats of warm afternoon sunlight that come through the gaps in the roof and walls.  
  
"You shouldn't be here." _I_ shouldn't be here. "Inquisitor."  
  
"Shhh." She says, holding a finger to her lips, "I'm sleeping. Keep making that griffon."  
  
He closes his eyes and counts to ten.  
  
"Inquisitor, it isn't proper for you to be near me. I am a criminal and hated by at least half of your inner Circle."  
  
"You've saved my life so many times I've lost count." She says, eyes closed, words sleepy, "I don't care what anyone says. You are my friend. You are a good person and I believe in you. I'm going to take my nap now. This place is the quietest. I like it best."  
  
And she's asleep.  
  
Blackwall stares at her - considers moving her, but it might be more trouble. He's done it many times before. Picked her up and carried her back to her rooms. But that was then. When he was trusted. This is now. Who knows what sort of talk would come up? Some may even think that he killed her or something. No. He'll leave her here. Perhaps he should leave?  
  
Where would he go?  
  
The horses and other various mounts don't judge him, and Dennet doesn't care who hangs around the stables as long as they're good to the animals. Everywhere else would be judging eyes and hardened hearts.  
  
The Inquisitor is soft.  
  
Blackwall sighs and turns back to the half-formed griffon. It seems to mock him. No matter how many griffons he makes, he will never truly be Blackwall.  
  
He reaches for a new, small, block of wood and begins to carve.  
  
-  
  
Soft, sweet, singing - she's so gentle, warm. She loves him for him and does not want him to change. She won't stop him from helping. She is happy when he helps because he is happy and it is a cycle of happiness that makes something inside him feel – _feel_.

She loves him as he is. But she also wants him to _grow_. Teach him how to help new people. He can feel it when he's near her. It sings off of her. Warmth radiates like a little sun in your hands, it does not burn. The memory of fire, the memory of family.  
  
"They remember me, now." She smiles, slow, soft, small. Slowly spreading. "What if I get it wrong? How do I make them forget?"  
  
"Sometimes forgetting doesn't help."  
  
"But what if I make a mistake?"  
  
"Then you try to fix it." She takes my hand, and my fingers are clumsy but hers link through mine and she swings our hands in the air. It feels nice, her hand and my hand, she is my friend. She is everyone's friend even when you do not want her to be, she loves you for _you_ and sees the bright things inside of you even if you think you are one long unending night - when she herself is a brilliant light thing that shines like a star in the dark. Calling everyone home, _home_ is where the heart is, home to _her_.  
  
This is Skyhold, but she holds the sky and she is the earth and she holds us all together. She holds. She _is_ held.  
  
"When you make a mistake you try again." She says, "You'll understand in time, how to do it. You can still help the little hurts, Cole. But when people remember you, people can be your friend. And friends help the hurts better than forgotten strangers."  
  
Could he have helped the real Cole if they were friends?  
  
"Would I help you more if I were your friend?"  
  
I want to help.  
  
"You _are_ my friend, Cole." She smiles and I feel warm inside, my mouth pulls up and I want to fidget. I want to bring her to the field in her dreams, flowers in purple and blue - bluebells. I want to bring her to the poppy field that Varric names her after and I want to learn to make the rings of flowers like she remembers from her clan for her. I want to make her bright because it makes everyone else feel calm. When she is bright they are alright. I feel better when she is glowing, glimmering, glad. "You help me all the time."  
  
We are friends. Friends - fast, faithful, _for you_.  
  
"I like it when I help you. When I help you I help everyone. Everyone feels better when you feel right." She looks like she doesn't know. How can she not know? "Coming together, connected, community, convoluted, complex. _Simple_. The heart that holds. She is held."


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is." He concedes, "And yes. It – ah. Comes off."

**-**

" _Fasta vass!_ "

Dorian whips around, mouth dropping open – "Did you _just –_ " – and is promptly tackled to the ground by Cassandra, who snarls as the dragon's claw swipes through the air where Dorian once was.

At the same time, Bull almost swings too hard and throws _himself_ to the ground as he turns to get her on the side with his good eye – "Boss did you just swear in fucking _Tevene_?"

"Less talking, more dragon killing." Cassandra yells as Lavellan fade-steps across the battlefield with a sharp yelp, dodging the stream of fire the dragon hurls her way.

Cassandra stands up, snarls, and moves forward to – what Dorian guesses – is stubborn the blighted thing to death.

Afterwards, as he's smacking Lavellan's arm away from her mouth -

_"It hurts, Dorian!"_

"I don't care if it hurts, you're not licking your cuts. _It doesn't help_."

"You can lick my wounds anytime, boss." Bull throws a wink her way and Dorian jabs the qunari in the ribs, _hard_ because his skin is _thick_ and practically dead with scar tissue, because she would. She would look at him and his numerous scrapes and bruises and _worry that he's in serious pain_ and then try to lick him which is, for one thing, extremely unsanitary, and two, not what Bull wants anyway. The idiot keeps flirting with her – as casual play, and everyone knows that – but sometimes she doesn't realize it's _flirting at all_.

"You didn't tell me you learned Tevene." Dorian says, hauling her against his side as they limp away from the dragon's corpse. Cassandra marches on ahead with nary a scratch on her. There are a few smears of ash on her face, her shield is a mess – which is why she ended up climbing onto the damn thing's back and _impaling it between the eyes with her broken sword_ – and she was slightly out of breath after the entire thing was done, but otherwise she looks like she just walked away from a light spar.

Dorian was an _idiot_ for doubting that she came from a family of _dragon slayers_.

And he owes Varric and Sera five gold sovereigns each. And two rounds of drinks to _every Charger. Every. Charger_.

"I don't know Tevene." Lavellan replies, "I mean. I only know what I know from you."

Dorian blinks – "I didn't teach you Tevene. What Tevene do you _know_ , exactly?"

Lavellan proceeds to repeat a long and colorful list of swears, ways to propose sexual intercourse, curses, creative ways to tell someone to sod off, and half a dozen ways to slander someone's legitimacy in fluid and perfect Tevene without so much as an accent or dropped syllable.

Dorian is _mortified_.

"I also learned some qunlat from Bull." She says, "A little Nevarran from Cassandra. Antivan from Josephine. And Orlesian from the soldiers at the tavern."

He doesn't want to know.

"Such as?" Bull prods, because he's an ass. An ass covered in blood and possibly light headed from blood loss. But an ass.

Dorian covers his face as she launches into a list that takes them all the way from the dragon's liar to within spotting distance of the closest Inquisition camp.

The list not only includes curses, but it also includes a long string of very, _very_ dirty bedroom talk.

"Where did you even _learn_ this." Dorian says, glaring at the Qunari. " _When_ did you learn this?"

"I don't actually know what most of it means." She admits, raising a hand to wave at the scouts who are running over – pale faced and terrified at the state that they're in. Considering they left this morning looking quite hale and hearty, and are now returning looking like they just got spat out by a volcano, Dorian thinks this is something of a legitimate reaction. "That last bit, as far as I can tell, is something about a boat and a brown harbor. That is some very dirty water, Dorian. Why would the water be brown?"

"I'd offer to explain," Bull says, "But I really wouldn't."

"Am I the only one concerned by the fact that our Herald of _Andraste_ 's ability to speak to people of a different nation is only limited to cursing them, sexually propositioning them, and slandering their names?" He turns to Cassandra who's waiting for them to catch up. He can rely on her to be as mortified as he is.

He's her best friend. And he's _corrupted her_. In the _useless ways_.

His best friend only knows the useless bits of Tevene. She can barely read common and has a loose and somewhat questionable grasp of idioms and maxims, but she can probably curse out half of Minrathous without breaking a sweat. And she doesn't even know half of what she's saying.

That is _awful_ and he is going to fix this as soon as possible so that in the unlikely event that she somehow ends up in Tevinter she doesn't get herself killed by calling the wrong person a – well. She has a lot of things to choose from.

Cassandra shrugs. "Do _you_ know any elven?"

Dorian and Bull pause -

" _Fenedhis_."

Lavellan perks up a little, winces when she pulls at the barely healed gash on her side, "That's a curse word!"

Cassandra shrugs, "When learning a new language the curse words are always the first you pick up. And the ones you remember fastest."

-

The Herald has been following him around all day and it is – it is mildly uncomfortable.

(She makes him think of _her_. Wide eyes, curious, quiet on her feet, an endless stream of words when not.

But she also – she is not _her_. Because she is innocent and well meaning and simply curious where _she_ was poking-prodding,-playing. _She_ was never this – this light. This soft. Not in the Circle. She was a hard woman, glittering edges. Steel. You had to be in the Circles. At least in – her, his, _their_ Circle.)

He waits, skimming over a report on unrest in the Hinterlands, too close towards the refugees – they'll have to send someone out soon. But who? Their forces are still so small. Half of these recruits are so green he can almost smell their _farms_ on them. Maker they're young.

He hopes they get a chance to get _old_.

Cullen can feel her – the magic in her softly prickling against his senses – as she flitters around behind him. She likes watching the recruits fight. Not used to this kind of fighting, he suspects. Swords and shields and brute, rough force. The Dalish use swords, too. But not this way. Quicker, quieter. Moving fast and moving through like a stampede.

The Dalish do not _hold_ , they run _over_.

Gone like the wind and whirling through like a fire storm.

Cullen hands the report back, turns to bark at some recruits who are going to get themselves killed if they keep holding their swords like that -

It's not that he forgets her – he is always aware of who is around him. Especially when he's surrounded by swords and the untried. They're all his responsibility and he will not let anything go wrong, if he can. He will not be negligent.

But when it becomes clear that she isn't going to come forward, that she is simply content to trail behind him and watch and wander in his shadow, he allows her presence to drift to the back of his mind. Cullen focuses on the reports, the stream of words, adjusting the rosters as he watches recruit after recruit – reprimanding slackers, encouraging those who're getting frustrated, giving helpful tips to those who need it, correcting stances and grips, the list goes on.

He's finally made it from one end of the training grounds to the other, and is about to make a slow circle around to check on the archers and the more practiced soldiers who work towards the fringes of the camp when she pops into his field of vision.

Cullen waits and tries not to think about this as waiting for a stray cat to come to you.

"Good afternoon, Commander." She says, he nods at her, can't help the bubble of amusement at the solemn gravity of her voice at the simple greeting.

"Good afternoon." He returns, waiting, patient. And also bracing himself for whatever she asks, because the last time they spoke like this it had ended with her asking about his _vows_ and Maker he's a grown man and he's killed people and faced demons and he's the _Commander of the Inquisition's army_ but he doesn't think that anyone would be capable of _not_ sputtering and faltering in the face of that question from _her_. "May I help you, Herald?"

She's quiet for a few more moments, and Cullen distracts himself from the inevitable by glaring a few recruits out of their slack-jawed stalling and back into their drills.

"Does it come off?"

"Pardon?"

"Does it come off?" She repeats. He stares at her. She stares back up at him and her hand moves out as if to touch him before curling back towards her chest. "Varric says it doesn't, but I don't believe him. It _has to come off_. But I can't figure out how. And I would've tried but shems don't like it when people touch them without asking first and I don't want you to be uncomfortable, but _it has to come off, doesn't it?_ "

He can actually hear everyone in earshot around them choking on laughter.

 _Varric_.

"My armor?" He asks for clarification. Because apparently he is really just that masochistic sometimes. Clearly.

"Yes. And this." She reaches out as if to touch, again, then stops herself and just gestures at his collar. "It looks warm."

"It is." He concedes, "And yes. It – ah. Comes off."

"I knew Varric was trying to trick me." She declares, hands behind her back as she leans close to inspect his chest. "How does it come off? Isn't it heavy? What is it made of? Where did you get it from? What are all the parts called? Commander have you _always_ worn things like this? Do you ever not wear things like this? Do you ever wear things like Dorian does? What about Blackwall? His overcoat is _very_ soft, he let me touch his arm. It was quilted. Do you have something like that underneath? You're turning red. Why are you turning red? Are you cold? Hello, Krem, do you know how the Commander takes his armor off? Commander are you _alright_?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are going to force me out of this office, aren't you?"

Cullen winces when he hears a shriek echo up from the courtyard, and wonders if he dares to check and see what happened.  
  
The option is taken out of his hands when Dorian throws his door open. "You are the Commander of this army and that means the Chargers are technically _your_ problem. Your move, _Commander_."  
  
Cullen wonders if it is below his station to somehow push this over onto Rylen or someone - _anyone_ \- else. And Dorian is still upset about - well, Cullen isn't sure. Dorian is usually upset with everyone over _something_. Clothing, wine, sand, lack of superior wit. In Cullen's case, it's the fact that he's - apparently - completely oblivious as to the "gift he's squandering".  
  
The gift is apparently his face. Something that Leliana and Josephine and half the people he talks to on a regular basis agree on, judging from how many times he's been told to "hush and look pretty" or "just stand there and hold that pose". The only ones who seem to acknowledge that he's a solider, and therefore _not_ eye candy are the Inquisitor and Warden Blackwall.  
  
"Technically the Inquisitor is their superior." Cullen says, "She is the one who recruited them, after all."  
  
Dorian is not having any of this. He just stands there, holding the door open. Waiting.  
  
"You are going to force me out of this office, aren't you?"  
  
"Think of your men's morale, Commander. How good will it look if you're dragged out of here by that stupid collar of yours by a Tevinter mage?" Dorian replies. "Go bark orders. Clench your jaw in a suitably masculine manner. Glare down your strangely unbroken nose. How _have_ you managed to not get your nose broken with your work experience?"  
  
"Perhaps my face is not one that begs to be punched." Cullen says, sighing as he stands up to break up what he hopes is a harmless bout. "And helmets don't hurt, either."  
  
Dorian rolls his eyes and Cullen peers over the ramparts towards the training arena.  
  
"What are they doing? Do I - is that a _chicken_?"  
  
He turns around, but Dorian is gone. Clearly having washed his hands of the entire affair now that he's thrown it at Cullen.  
  
This is the reason why he's not allowed to take breaks. He isn't sure if he's the Commander of an army or a glorified babysitter to dubiously trained overgrown children at this point. It almost makes him miss Kirkwall. Before it was - well. Before. Cullen grimaces. Maybe that's why Varric stayed.  
  
-  
  
Varric has to admit. He had his doubts at first.  
  
Sure, Curly's changed on the outside. Better hair, a new wardrobe, even a new fancy title. And yeah, he wasn't that bad to start with. He was reasonable for a templar. Cautious and uptight, but reasonable. Even stood up to Meredith at the end. For all the good that did anyone.  
  
Too far gone at that point.  
  
But still. Varric had suspicions about the former Knight-Captain-Commander-whatever-his-title-was-after-shit-went-down.  
  
Old habits die hard if they die at all - does anything even really die? - and that's why he finds himself keeping an eye on Lavellan. Almost makes him think of Merrill, but Merrill grew into herself - in her own way - just fine. Lavellan still has some growing to do. She's different from Merrill, he reminds himself. She reminds him of that every time she does something crazy like jump out of a tree or slide down a cliff.  
  
It's not until he sees Cullen with Lavellan does he realize that yeah, maybe the guy really has changed for the better after all.  
  
Varric doesn't think that the Cullen he knew in Kirkwall would patiently endure Lavellan's torrent of questions so well. Or even answer them that kindly. He doesn't think Cullen would gently steer her towards the fire or the cooks and sit her down all nice and gentle. He doesn't think Cullen would have tolerated her flickering around his shadow and his soldiers and standing so close or pointing at him or talking his ear off. He doesn't think the old Cullen would've laughed like that when she says something funny.  
  
He remembers what Aveline said when he sent her a letter asking her opinion if he should run as fast as possible or maybe stick around to see what happens.  
  
"He's was one of the few good men left, here." She told him, "I'm almost sad to see him go. He helped hold this city apart with his bare hands. I respect that. I hope this Inquisition is better for him that Kirkwall was."  
  
Varric could see it then, even if a little reluctantly.  
  
He sees it now, clearly.  
  
Not all templars are bad. Cullen was just one of the ones who got really shit luck and was thrown in and surrounded by bad of all sorts. It gets hard to see the good after all that.  
  
Varric nods at the man when he comes into the tavern, face tired, but shoulders held back and strong. Makes him think of Aveline and Hawke. Almost a little bit of Anders, too.  
  
"Have a drink, Curly." Varric says, waving a hand at the free seat next to him. Cullen raises an eyebrow at him - they were really acquaintances at best. Friend of a annoyingly friendly and stubborn apostate kind of deal.  
  
"Varric." Cullen says, taking the seat, eyes scanning the room, pausing over Sera and then again on the Chargers before meeting his own. "Ah. How are you?"  
  
Varric snorts. "Really? That's how you open? Your people skills need work."  
  
Cullen rolls his eyes, "Forgive me, Varric. Between the the time with the abominations and the time the Chantry was blown up there isn't much I thought we could talk about. That and the fact that every time I've seen you, you were in the company of a blood mage, an apostate, and a known fanatic. Not the sort of talk I thought would be a worthy opener."  
-  
  
"You were hungry so you hunted, shot, skinned, and gutted, a rabbit. Just to make sure I'm hearing this right." Krem repeats, staring at the girl as she rubs her red hands on the snow. "And - still covered in blood, mind you, walked up to the Commander of the Inquisition and asked him if he knew where the spices were kept. Still covered in blood."  
  
"Well, yes, Krem." She replies, squinting up at him as she stains the snow with her hands, "As you can see, I am currently cleaning it off as we speak. Would you like some rabbit? I have to go back and get it."  
  
"No. I'm fine." Krem replies, eyebrows raising. "And you still aren't seeing why this is - somewhat ill considered? Going up the Commander of an army covered in _blood_?"  
  
"No." She replies, "You haven't explained. And it's not that much blood. My clothes are clean and everything." She pauses, "Is it because I could've gotten my clothes dirty? _Please_ don't tell Josephine."  
  
"He thought you might've gotten hurt. Daft girl." Krem raps his knuckles on her head, "Typically, when someone walks up to you with bloody hands that either means that they're injured or a murderer. Good on the Commander for going with injured rather than jumping towards murder. Not the option most people would think to go down first. He's soft underneath all that armor, isn't he?"  
  
The Herald wrinkles her nose. "Why would I be injured? There's nothing but snow and nugs as far as the eye can see. And rams. I like the rams. They let me hug them."  
  
The Herald of Andraste is a small woodland animal that can set things on fire, Krem thinks, staring down at her. No wonder the Chantry's practically shat itself.  
  
"Why don't we go get that rabbit?" Krem says. "You can show me that new trick Solas taught you, while you're at it. Haven't seen that particular spell before."  
  
Lavellan brightens and springs to her feet, launching into chatter about the latest thing she's learned all bright eyed enthusiasm and hand gestures that kind of spark and blur a little.  
  
He wonders if she's open to being recruited after this whole end of the world business is over.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dorian is going to kill you." Blackwall says when the Inquisitor returns her focus to said puppies, tickling their little bellies as they squirm and nip at her fingers.

"Puppies!" She whispers, awed as the little balls of fluff and awkward limbs climb over and waddle around her on clumsy newborn puppy feet. Cullen and Blackwall exchange fond and vaguely exasperated looks over her. The Herald of Andraste, lying down on the floor of a barn being climbed over and generally treated as a large adventure to be overcome by Mabari pups.  
  
The Ash Warriors and Wardens who've joined them were only too happy to let her play with their dogs. And now that there are puppies - Cullen is fairly sure that someone is going to come yell at him for this. He's always the one getting yelled at - when it isn't Cassandra.  
  
"They're so _tiny_." She whispers, cupping one brown pup in her hands. It squirms around in her palms, little limbs stretching out. "It has little _toes_!"  
  
Cullen covers his mouth to try and stifle his laughter. Blackwall nudges a puppy that's wandering a little too far away with his foot back in the right direction.  
  
"Cullen, you're Ferelden - is it true what they say? All Fereldens have dogs? Like all Dalish clans have halla?" She rolls onto her back, and the puppies swarm to figure out why their climbing structure has changed. She laughs a little as puppies nudge against her side with awkward paws. She holds the one in her hands up above her, cooing at it.  
  
"It's not _quite_ the same." Cullen replies, bending down to scoop some puppies up and gently drop them closer towards the Inquisitor. "My family had a dog. Not a mabari, mind you, but we still loved her. And not all Fereldens have dogs. Dogs just - have an important role in our culture."  
  
"Dorian says that Fereldens don't have culture." Lavellan replies. Blackwall snorts.  
  
"Dorian also chooses to walk around a mountain with one arm and parts of his chest bared, then complains that it's freezing." Blackwall points out. Cullen's lips twist up in a smirk and Lavellan laughs, squirming on the ground when the puppies bump and nuzzle against her neck and ears.  
  
"That is true." She concedes, "Dorian is very strange. Do you think he'd like a puppy?"  
  
"Yes." Cullen replies, immediately. Blackwall guesses that Dorian won their last chest match. "He would _love_ a puppy. You should surprise him by leaving a puppy in his quarters. As soon as the puppies are old enough, of course."  
  
The Inquisitor stares up at the Commander like she's received word from the Maker - or, _er_ , whatever the equivalent is for the Dalish - himself.  
  
"Cullen that's such a great idea!" She gasps, "Creators, why didn't I think of that? A puppy would keep him warm and he'd have company all the time!" She looks positively ecstatic. "Thank you! How soon do you think I can give him one? Puppies, Commander! _Puppies_!"  
  
"Dorian is going to kill you." Blackwall says when the Inquisitor returns her focus to said puppies, tickling their little bellies as they squirm and nip at her fingers.  
  
"First he'd have to tell her he doesn't like the pups." Cullen points out, smug as he hooks a thumb over his sword-belt. " _And_ he'd have to return it."  
  
Blackwall laughs.  
  
-  
  
At some point, she's run out of mana, he's run out of mana, Cassandra has resorted to bashing things across the face with her shield repeatedly, and Sera's just trying to not get hit and smacking things across the knees and face with her bow if they get too close. He's never actually _seen_ her run out of arrows, or fail to scavenge and reuse her arrows before. Something he knew must happen in theory, but until now has never seen in actuality.  
  
So here they are, beating things - _literally_ \- with sticks - staves, really, but does it matter? - in the middle of the blighted - literally, formerly a Blight area - dessert.  
  
"You owe me." Dorian calls out, shoving Lavellan into the sand - hears her yelp, cough, and hopes that she didn't swallow sand - and cracking a bandit across the face with his staff. "There is sand everywhere. On me. Around me. _In_ me. Disturbing and gross and uncomfortable. I am never coming out here again."  
  
"Agreed." Sera yells, pitching a bandit off the side of a cliff with a well placed kick. "What part of cities did you not get? I'm a city elf. What the fuck part of cities is all this _sand_? None!"  
  
Lavellan rolls to her feet - Maker, she's barefoot and everything is burning and he has no idea how she isn't dancing around. Her feet must be killing her. She's in chainmail, for Andraste's sake. Chainmail. Granted, it's some sort of strange Lyrium based elven chain mail. But still. Shiny metal that's been making Dorian's eyes hurt whenever he looks at her because it's just that - well. Shiny and reflective.  
  
"You were complaining that we didn't do things together anymore!" She yells back, squinting - sand in the eyes - before whacking the nearest bandit with her staff. There's a solid crack and the bandit goes down hard. Unfortunately, so does she, because sand. Everywhere. In her face, in Dorian's face, moving underneath them and slipping-sliding generally being not the most solid of things to stand on while fighting. "And since when did anything we've ever had to do taken us to a city?"  
  
"I should've fucking stayed in Val Royeaux." Sera moans.  
  
" _Fasta vass_." Dorian hisses. "I hate your guts, you little conniving - "  
  
Dorian is cut off when Lavellan tackles him to the ground, and Cassandra lets out a war cry and punches the last bandit in the throat. The bandit falls down, dagger dropping into the sand.  
  
"Gift who saved you from getting stabbed in the back?" Lavellan finishes smiling up at him like the little sister Dorian imagines is the pain in the neck for every older sibling in Thedas.  
  
"Technically, _Cassandra_ saved me." Dorian mutters.  
  
"We're going back to Skyhold." Cassandra says, standing over them both, blood slowly trickling down over her eye. "And we are _staying_ at Skyhold until I can get the sand out of." Her face spasms. "Until I can get all of the sand out."  
  
"Agreed." Sera says. "Agreed so hard."  
  
"Well, you're outvoted." Dorian says, sighing in relief. "And if you ever try to drag me back here again, you'll have to do better than promise me wine, gossip, and assassinations of my least favorite countrymen."  
  
-  
  
"Not _all_ mages - " Lavellan starts, stops. "That sounds like a very weak argument, doesn't it?"  
  
"It could use some work, yeah." Sera replies, "Look maybe you should be figuring this argument out with someone else. Someone not me. Someone not me who is far away, yeah?"  
  
"I know you don't like mages - "  
  
"I like mages just fine. When they're doing their magic thing not here. I mean - I like you. Don't I? I do. Just in case you were wonderin'. I just don't like magic." Sera waves a hand.  
  
"If I can present this argument to you and have it sound alright, I should be able to give it to the Commander." Lavellan says. "You're helping me practice."  
  
Sera snorts.  
  
"You'll point out all the flaws so I can work on them before I go to the meeting tomorrow." Lavellan continues. "It'd be helping me a lot, Sera."  
  
"Still say you should go Templars. They've got _swords_  and  _armor_."  
  
Lavellan puts on her game face. Kind of makes her look like a really excited mouse. Or rabbit, yeah. Sera reaches out and squishes Lavellan's face. Now one of those tiny dogs. Heh. Tiny dogs.  
  
"Sera." Lavellan says, sounding all mushed up and funny.  
  
"Don't mind me. Just thinking about templars and not magic." Sera replies, "You gonna eat that pie?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Good, because everyone's who's eaten it today's had some really nasty words and a lot of nasty time at the privy." Sera says, releasing Lavellan's face. "It'd be funny if it wasn't so stinky-gross. You need to work on that, by the way. Get someone on working on the food problem here. Food's important for morale and all that shite an army needs. And. You know. _People_. In general. Staying alive. Not dying in the middle of the mountains and failing to plug a hole in the sky. Wait. _Heh_. Plug a hole. Heh. This is _so_ wasted on you."  
  
"Do I want to know? I want to know. Do I? _No_. Maybe? _Mages_ , Sera. _Mages_. Stop distracting me."  
  
"Alright, alright. Fine. Mages. But seriously, _don't_ eat that meat pie."  
-  
  
"Perhaps it would be a good idea to send a message to your clan." Josephine says, "So that they know that you are well."  
  
Lavellan perks up, "Oh, yes - but. Ah. Is there anyway you could be discrete about it? I mean - no offense, but um. Well. Shemlen."  
  
Leliana hums, "We could send a few of our elven scouts. They're not Dalish, but it's better than sending human soldiers or nobles, yes?"  
  
"That would be perfect." Lavellan says, tapping a spot near Wycome on the map, "My clan is supposed to be here for the rest of the year. Good hunting, fair weather. Far away enough to make it hard for shems to hunt us, close enough to the roads to find merchants if we need to."  
  
Lavellan's finger taps on the map for a few seconds, "If possible, do you think you could have your people give mine some paper and ink as well? Um. We don't exactly keep that sort of thing on hand." She fidgets, "Letters aren't exactly a Dalish thing to do. Nomadic and isolated clans and all."  
  
"Of course." Josephine replies, "If we can we will give it, just say the word. We're here to help you as much as you're here to help us."  
  
Lavellan gives them a wobbly, uncertain smile. "Thank you."  
  
Leliana wonders if she's ever been so far from her clan before, so alone. She's doing well either way.  
  
"I shall send my people whenever you're ready." Leliana says, "Is there any message you'd like to pass along? Write a letter of your own, perhaps?"  
  
The tips of the girl's ears turn pink. "Ah, well. I don't exactly know how to write. So." Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "I guess not?"  
  
Leliana doesn't miss the way that Josephine almost scratches out what she was writing out of surprise. Leliana isn't too surprised. The Dalish are very isolated, after all. Not all the clans are able to teach common. Just like how not every village has a proper Chantry or schoolhouse. Not everyone is privelaged enough to learn such things as reading or writing or arithmetic  
  
"If you'd like, you could dictate to someone." Leliana says, "Have someone write the message down for you."  
  
Lavellan blinks, "Really? I - Ma serannas, that would be most appreciated. I will work hard to repay this kindness."  
  
"Think nothing of it." Leliana waves her hand. She can see the gears in Josephine's head already turning. Lesson plans, tutors, reading material, primers, writing slates.  
  
Cullen must see it too because the corner of his lip keeps twitching upwards.  
  
"I'll send someone to your quarters." Leliana says, "Whenever you're ready, Herald."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course." Cullen replies. It says something about his life that he's getting used to lying to strangely intimidating women through his teeth.

It is interesting to watch her move. The way she's changing. He wonders if she's even aware that she _is_ changing. If the others are aware, as he is aware. Maybe Cullen - maybe Cassandra - they've got good eyes. Trained to notice that kind of thing, changes in behavior. The spymaster, too, probably.  
  
She is changing. He can't say as to how she was before this Inquisition, but he knows how she moved when he first met her. And Bull knows how she moves now.  
  
Before she was uncomfortable. Not used to combat and fire-fights. Not used to armor and shoes, not used to fighting with a team. Not used to fighting in the open.  
  
Going by what Dalish has said of her clan and the rest of her people, it fits. Guerrilla warfare, crowded terrain, sabotage, moving light and silent through grass and trees to eliminate small groups of targets - usually not people, but animals who spook easier.  
  
Even her magic is spartan, clever and sneaky. Or _was_ , anyway. Most mages he's used to fighting - most Vints have some kind of personal flare. You can kind of guess where they learned, what schools they learned at by what kind of stupid flourishes they do. Some even take it a step further and make it more their own. Little ticks that give things away, subtle changes in spell work. She didn't have that, before. Her spells were clean,  
  
But she's changed. _Changing_ , still. He can see bits of the Vint and Solas in her. When she casts ice, she curls her lip and bares her teeth in a grimace-snarl like Solas does, and her body moves with it, almost curling like a predator's crouch when she slams her staff down, or curls her fist. And when she casts fire, she flings it, a wave to her arm like a dancer. That's all Dorian, right there. She's even got a bit of Madame de Fer in the way she casts barriers. Solid stance, graceful hand.  
  
It's not just the mages she's been copying, either.  
  
She's picked up this habit of moving behind Cassandra in a fight - not right behind her, but behind her in a sense that she uses Cassandra as a cover. Moving far away and back enough that enemies focus on Cassandra, not seeing her where she hides where the Seeker can block their eyesight, or present a bigger target. And she's copied the way Varric side-steps, a strange shuffle that looks like she's gliding. Boss has even picked up the way Cole jumps. A spring that looks like some kind of bird descending.  
  
Bull is fairly sure she isn't aware of it. Doesn't seem like she's doing it on purpose, either. Just picking up things that work by watching. Learning, like all kids do.  
  
He wonders what the fuck she's going to do with all that when this is over. No bandit is ever going to mess with her again, that's for fucking sure. Her clan is going to have their hands full with her. He wagers that she's as competent in a fight as any merc is, now. Any _good_ merc. Any good merc with a name. A one woman force. Not the same way the Seeker is, of course.  
  
The Seeker is a one woman _army_.  
  
Bull scratches his chin, watching her watch the people in the training ring. Her fingers twitch as she watches Skinner fight with dulled daggers against Krem's training sword. She's expanding her skillset.

 _Omnivorous._  
  
Hungry little girl.  
  
Bull grins, "Wanna try?"  
  
She turns and blinks up at him, eyes flicking from him back to the ring before she smiles, too.  
  
And the thing she gets from him?  
  
"Yes." She says.  
  
It's that _smile_.  
  
-  
  
"Hide me." is about all he gets when the Inquisitor bursts in during a meeting with some of his soldiers as she skids into the room, falling onto all fours and crawling between their legs and underneath Cullen's desk.  
  
He stares at _her_ , everyone stares at _him_ , and then he looks up and gestures for them to continue their report.  
  
If there are two things Cullen is good at, it's obeying orders - ignoring Kirkwall, at the end - and adapting to a situation. And the Herald has been putting that skill-set to good use. Usually to get herself out of trouble, but still. Cullen likes to think he is a good advisor and a good subordinate. Mostly he's found that it's easier to humor her rather than try to argue. Her logic could turn anyone on their head. It just isn't worth it.  
  
So he gestures for the reports to go on and ignores the fact that the Inquisitor is hiding under his desk. He leans his hip against said desk and hopes that she isn't hiding from anything too important.  
  
A few minutes into the report about Venatori forces in the Western Approach doing something dodgy around what could be an old temple or ruin hidden underneath the sand, the door swings open and Vivienne steps through.  
  
"Commander,  if I could have a moment of your time. Has the Inquisitor passed through here recently? She is currently missing a dance lesson."  
  
Why does no one ever knock?  
  
"No, I'm afraid she hasn't passed through." It isn't a lie. She's technically still here, after all. His men are looking between him and Madame Vivienne, loyal enough not to give him or the Inquisitor away, incredulous enough to be staring wide-eyed, and smart enough to not actually look at the desk.  
  
She narrows her eyes and hums, arms folded.  
  
"If she does, you _will_ send her along, wont you? This is all very important, the Inquisitor's education _must_ not fall behind. Her reputation is at stake."  
  
"Of course." Cullen replies. It says something about his life that he's getting used to lying to strangely intimidating women through his teeth.  
  
Madame Vivienne hums again, eyes still narrowed, but she turns on her heel, closing the door and gliding away.  
  
A few tense moments later the Inquisitor rolls out from under the desk, crawls to the ladder that leads up to his room, and proceeds to scuttle up and disappear from view altogether.  
  
Cullen closes his eyes and waves a hand for the report to continue.  
  
On one hand, he's surprised that no rumors about such things occurring have cropped up thus far. It's not as if this is the first time she's done something like this. On the other hand, he's fairly sure that the reason why no rumors have come up is because she does something like this - hiding in people's quarters, invading their personal space, making herself at home in people's rooms - on a wide and frequent scale with any number of people in full view.  
  
It would be hard to start a rumor about that sort of thing when the woman in question just likes to take naps in odd places and has done so frequently enough that everyone in Skyhold knows about it.  
  
Either way, his people always look at him a little bit in awe whenever he lies on her behalf - usually to Leliana or Cassandra - and gets away with it.  
  
At this point he's pretty sure that that's what makes them respect him, more than his years of service and actual fighting abilities.  
  
-  
  
Krem wakes up - needs to take a piss -, and frowns because the bed is warm. _Too_ warm for just him. And he feels a hand lightly curled into the back of his shirt - and something else, hard, digging into his lower back. He cautiously turns to look over his shoulder, and then promptly yelps, and rolls off the bed. He hits the floor hard, groans, and looks back onto the bed -  
  
"Your _worship_?"  
  
The Inquisitor is curled up small, like a kitten or a pup, knees close to her chest, hands tucked up by her face, huddled underneath the blankets. She opens one bleary eye into a slit that dimly glows in the low light of the early morning. "Maker's balls - what - when?"  
  
She yawns, a small, terrifyingly adorable sound before she burrows deeper into the blankets, all but disappearing from view.  
  
"Your worship?" Krem repeats, scandalized, because he knows he sure as fuck didn't sleep with her. No. He would never - she wasn't there last night - he wasn't even fucking drunk -  
  
"It's too early." She mumbles. "Wake me up when it's dawn. S'cold."  
  
Krem stares at the lump of blankets and elf before turing around and kicking the bed next to his.  
  
"You couldn't have fucking warned me, Grim?"  
  
Grim flips him off and rolls onto his face. Asshole.  
  
Krem hears the faint sound of laughter from the room next door.  
  
"You get used to it, Krem." Bull says through the wall, "Besides, who can say that they woke up to the Herald of Andraste in their bed?"  
  
Half of the Inquisitor's Inner circle, every horse, hart, dracolisk, and cow they have in the stables, and now - apparently, she's about to start work on the Chargers.  
  
Krem sighs and shoves his feet into his boots. He really does need to use the privy.  
  
"Just when I thought things were getting normal." Krem mutters, "Elves _everywhere_. Going to have to end up shaking them out of the bloody curtains, next. Damn it, Grim - warn a man next time."


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We can't all be walking fireplaces." Dorian snaps. "Look, Lavellan even put on shoes for once. Of her own free will. If that isn't a sign of impending death and disaster, I don't know what is. Lavellan wearing shoes. Dragons in coliseums. Quarries full of red lyrium. The world has gone barking mad."

"You know, I didn't think I'd like you." She says, rolling a pawn between her palms a Cullen glares at the board. He's attempting to figure out Dorian's strategy - they're carrying off from their last game, and for the life of him, Cullen can't remember what he was doing to get himself into such a mess of a check. Dorian probably tried to distract him with something. Most likely he succeeded, from the looks of how things are going. - and Lavellan is sitting next to the table, her eyes peeping over the edge and staring up at him as they wait for Dorian to arrive. They're both early - Cullen because he wants to attempt to save this game, and some of his dignity, and Lavellan because she saw him heading towards the gardens and wanted to come with him. "Templar and all."  
  
Cullen hums, he is used to such statements. "Understandable, really. May I have that pawn back, my lady?"  
  
She hands him the pawn - that small laugh playing at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the one that she always gets whenever he calls her _my lady_ because "I feel like a shem princess, that's silly, Cullen. Don't you think that's silly? I like it. Blackwall calls me that, too, sometimes." - and he puts it back on the board where it was when she picked it up. They've yet to quite explain the rules to her and get them to stick, and as far as she understands it, as long as no one is actually playing, she's free to take the pieces and play with them as she will.  
  
She always puts them back where they were, so Cullen sees no harm done anyway. It's not like they'd _know_ if she switched them around. No one's memory is that good and the games do tend to go on for a weeks, what with travel and work and meetings.  
  
"But I _do_ like you." She says, resting her chin on the table, staring down her nose at the board. "I didn't think I'd ever like a _templar_. Or call one a friend. But I like you and you _are_ my friend. It's a very odd turn of events, don't you think it's odd?"  
  
"There are more peculiar things. You're friends with a Qunari mercenary." Cullen points out. "And an heir to the Nevarran throne. And three candidates to the seat of the Divine."  
  
"Cassandra is the _seventieth_ -something in line." Lavellan says, reaching up to pluck Dorian's tower off of the board. If only Cullen could get Dorian's pieces out of play so easily. "When I was little, they told us horror stories about you. If we were bad, templars would come and take us away."  
  
He would be offended, except - "Ah. When I was small, I was told the very same thing about the Dalish. They'd come and whisk you away in the dead of night."  
  
Lavellan snorts a laugh and puts the castle back, this time choosing to play with one of the captured knights, tilting it back and forth with a finger.  
  
"I'm very glad we met, Cullen." She says.  
  
"As am I, Inquisitor." He replies, and it is very true. He does not know what man he would have been if he did not join the Inquisition. If he did not get to meet so many - _colorful_ people. If Lavellan was not there to gather them together like chess pieces. "I don't suppose Dorian would have happened to tell you his strategy for winning this game, would he?"  
  
Lavellan hums, eyes squinting as she stares at the gazebo ceiling in thought. "All I know is that there was something about clerics and smug looks."  
  
Cullen is guessing that the _smug looks_ part is about his supposed victory smirk whenever he wins. Clerics- ah. There it is. Why didn't he see it before? Now, how does he get out of it -  
  
Lavellan hooks her small finger around one of the captured pawns and takes off with it and two of the captured towers. He doesn't know what she does with them whenever she goes off with them, but she always comes back with them and they don't seem any different so he supposes he doesn't have to know.  
  
He looks up to see Dorian coming in from the great hall and prepares to settle this game.  
  
-  
  
"If I die here I will haunt you for the rest of your - most likely, few and numbered, without my _sane voice of reason_ assisting you - days." Dorian says, "Join the Inquisition, help the Inquisitor, save the world, it'll be _fun_." He says in a ridiculous falsetto, "Dorian you're my friend, friends help each other, don't you want to see what Orlais has to offer? Think of the culture! _Pish_. Absolute swill and garbage."  
  
"This isn't _so_ bad." Lavellan says, wiping her nose on her sleeve, "It's better than the Hissing Wastes."  
  
Which are appropriately named as the Hissing bloody _Wastes_.  
  
"The Hissing Wastes and this are two _completely_ different types of disastrous and lethal." Dorian says, shivering, "One is a giant oven with sand and this is - this is a frozen wasteland with red lyrium. Neither are very high up on the enjoyable scale."  
  
"Hot springs." Lavellan says.  
  
"Dragons." Dorian hisses.  
  
" _Dragons_." Iron Bull sighs in bliss from where he's forging a path ahead of them. Quite literally pushing through snow, shoving it out of the way or otherwise melting it with his. Giant qunari _everything_. "Good times."  
  
" _Not_ good times." Cassandra says, "The Inquisitor almost _died_."  
  
And Cassandra with nary a scratch or blemish on her. Oh, _of course_ , she gets bruises from smacking templars across the face with her shield or minor scrapes from shrapnel she dodges. But facing a dragon? A smudge of ash. Her weapons in tatters. But she walks away like she's just passing through on the way to more important things like tea with the Empress or a quick luncheon with a arl.  
  
Ridiculous. Absolutely _ridiculous_.  
  
Dorian is almost completely certain that if he could somehow distill whatever it is that makes Cassandra _Cassandra_ he would be able to make an entire invincible army. That would keep the Inquisitor from dragging him through this flaming garbage every time she gets it into her head that he needs to get out more.  
  
"Why can't you ever take us anywhere _nice_?" Dorian asks.  
  
"We went to the Emerald Graves. That wasn't so bad for visiting a graveyard of my People."  
  
"Well when you put it like _that_." Dorian rolls his eyes, pausing to curl is arm through hers and _pull_ her through the snow. "Also ignoring the forest of giants, the ridiculous bears that happen to really, _really_ adore our dear Seeker - "  
  
Cassandra turns to glare at him.  
  
" - and not to forget the bandits and templars popping up like moles, yes, it was a pleasant experience all around. Even that time that Pride demon threw you into a rock. Twice."  
  
Lavellan winces.  
  
"I meant to dodge, _really_."  
  
"Of course." Dorian says, "And I meant to not die in the middle of a frozen wasteland."  
  
"You're not gonna die." Bull says.  
  
"We can't all be walking fireplaces." Dorian snaps. "Look, Lavellan even put on shoes for once. Of her own _free will_. If that isn't a sign of impending death and disaster, I don't know what is. Lavellan wearing shoes. Dragons in coliseums. Quarries full of red lyrium. The world has gone barking _mad_."  
  
"I wear shoes." Lavellan protests. "Sometimes."  
  
Cassandra and Bull laugh. Dorian just looks at her.  
  
"You spent the first  month at Skyhold hiding shoes in the rubble. You _don't_ wear shoes."

"I  _wasn't_ hiding them." She mumbles, tucking her face into a scarf that Cole knitted - who even  _taught_ Cole to knit? - for her. "I was just...investigating storage places. For shoes."

-  
  
Krem finds the Herald lying down across the chairs the chief normally takes up for himself. He stands next to her dangling legs, "Tired?"  
  
"No." She replies, staring at the ceiling, fingers tapping on her belly. "Krem?"  
  
"Yes, your worship?"  
  
"Why does the Iron Bull sit here? It's not very comfortable. And the tables are over there. She stretches one arm to point. "And most of the view is covered by the stairs."  
  
Makes it easier for him to pick people up, Krem doesn't say. Which is true, but not the _entire_ reason.  
  
He nudges her feet to the side to sit on one of the chairs, and she lifts her legs and drops them on his lap. Krem hums, resting his arms on her shins.  
  
"Well. If the stairs are in the way, there's really only two directions you can come from then, right?" Chief was right, you _do_ get used to her. And then you get used to answering _questions_. It's like the Inquisition is trained to answer questions at the drop of a hat. No one is ever going to be phased by any question after this, no matter what situation and question. Well - he supposes she is the  _Inquisitor_.  
  
"Right." She says, frowning at the ceiling. "Behind the stairs or to the left."  
  
"Chief's missing the left eye." Krem points out.  
  
"Yes, but you're at his left." She says, "And you're watching the rest of the room."  
  
Krem hums and watches her connect the pieces, realization dawning over her face as she smiles up at the ceiling.  
  
" _Oh_ , so that means while you watch that part of the room, Bull's free to watch the back of the stairs and the bar, the bits _you_ can't see!" She claps her hands. "That's very clever."  
  
It'd be more clever if the chief didn't use that as an excuse to pick people up and make jokes at Krem's expense when he isn't looking, and generally make bad decisions when Krem can't turn around and tell him not to.  
  
The Inquisitor sits up, scooting closer so that her legs dangle over the side of Krem's lap, she darts in and pecks his cheek - "You make everything seem so _simple_ Krem, that's a gift. Thank you." - before slipping away and meandering up the stairs calling out for the spirit boy.  
  
Krem sighs, glances up to see the Dalish and Skinner grinning at him. Krem jabs a finger in their direction. Skinner makes the " _I'm watching you"_ " gesture. Krem rolls his eyes and gets to his feet to go to his usual seat.  
  
"Lay off it, Skinner." Krem kicks her chair as he passes, dodging the jab she aims at his side, "I don't see you threatening Grim for that time she made him _embrace_ her."  
  
Grim shoots Krem a betrayed look. Dalish clicks her tongue like a mother hen and Skinner turns to raise an incredulous eyebrow at the man.  
  
"She made you _embrace_ her?"  
  
Grim makes a series of complex and vague pantomimes before giving up and turning around to stare at the wall.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I were to, hypothetically, have misplaced a certain – rather important – elf, what would you say?” Varric says, examining a stack of parcels that threatens to teeter and spill over the floor in front of Josephine’s desk.

“If I were to, hypothetically, have misplaced a certain – rather important – elf, what would you say?” Varric says, examining a stack of parcels that threatens to teeter and spill over the floor in front of Josephine’s desk.

The woman doesn’t even hesitate as she continues to write out missive after missive. “Hypothetically, I would say that you have until sundown to either find that elf or pack your things and get out of Ferelden before I tell Cassandra. _Hypothetically_ speaking, of course.”

Varric is nearly one hundred percent sure that if Ruffles were in Kirkwall it wouldn’t be such a pisshole as it is now. Also, she and Aveline should never meet because they probably conquer the world, introduce something like world peace, and put him out of a job. No one writes books about _peaceful_ lives. It doesn’t sell. _Hard in Hightown_ would go down the drain.

Josephine dips her quill into her inkwell, “Where and how would you, hypothetically, lose an elf?”

Varric squints his eyes and tilts his head at what he thinks is an envelope that’s faintly humming. Buzzing, really. He should probably be more concerned about that, but lots of things buzzed and hummed in Kirkwall and only half of them turned out to be dangerous.

“It involves a trebuchet, handmade stuffed nugs with wings, an easily startled hart, and poor impulse control.” He replies, pauses when Josephine looks up at him. “ _Hypothetically speaking_ , of course.”

“Is she _alive_?” Josephine asks, faint touch of panic threatening her voice. Varric spreads his hands - “No. Wait. Don’t tell me. Go – make yourself scarce, Varric. I won’t tell Cassandra _yet_ , but I think we all know she’ll – “

“ _Where is the dwarf?”_ A barely muffled voice echoes from beyond the door to the main hall. Josephine sets her quill down, caps her inkwell, and calmly folds her hands. Varric wonders how you’d describe this in a book. The Ambassador looks like she’s ready to talk down an invasion of Qunari.

“Varric.” Josephine says.

“Ambassador.” Varric returns. “It appears that the mother bear has lost track of her cub.”

The Ambassador doesn’t even blink. This is why Varric always folds whenever she plays.

“I believe you have other places to be.” Josephine says, “An appointment outside of Skyhold. It’ll occupy the rest of your entire day.”

“A collection mission.” Varric nods, “Got to find those nugs. Don’t want them just lying around the countryside. That’s _littering_.”

Varric edges out of Josephine’s office and jogs down the stairs that go into the strange basement level, door thudding shut behind him as another opens and the Seeker’s voice punches through the air -

“ _The dwarf, Josephine. He was here. I can smell the oil he uses on his crossbow. Where is he?”_

Varric is almost tempted to comment, but he isn’t that crazy, despite what anyone would say. The last time he only got away because the Inquisitor managed to step in. He’s not risking getting his nose broken. Even if he’s been given the _perfect_ opportunity.

“You’re alive.” Bull says, eyebrow raising as he pushes off from the section of wall he was leaning against. “Saw the Seeker storming up to the main hall. Thought she’d throw you out one of the fancy glass windows any second. I was wondering if I’d be able to catch you.”

“Thanks, Tiny. Got any leads on where that hart might’ve run off to?” Dragging behind their poor Inquisitor?

Bull jerks his thumb towards the gates, “Cole’s got a general idea. Something about sunlight and rivers and shoes, I dunno. Sounds like her, though. She sounds okay. Says that she’s – _sleeping, slept, sunflower sprawl_. Whatever that means. Shit, that kid could probably get rich with that kind of poetry.”

-

There are some days where Cassandra almost wishes she were back in Nevarra. At least it was quiet there.

The Inquisitor squeaks and the Iron Bull snorts, hauling her up by the back of her neck and putting her back on top of the dracolisk. She eyes the thing and it stares right back at her, tongue flickering out. She doesn’t trust it.

At least the damn thing is quiet. Eerie, but quiet.

It feels like half of the Inquisition has turned up to stare and watch – from a safe distance – the Inquisitor practice riding with her new mount. Solas and Dorian are watching from a little closer than that, presumably to put out any fires that may happen and heal any injuries. Solas has one hand on the nose of the Inquisitor’s hart.

Said hart looks incredibly angry for a _deer_.

Cassandra breathes out through her nose and turns to glare at the dracolisk when it stretches its neck out towards her.

She’s not sure why she’s here, other than to make sure that they don’t kill the girl on accident.

Bull is here because he likes dragons and he likes the Inquisitor and because – she’s fairly certain – he’s just as concerned about how this may turn out as she is. Dracolisks aren’t exactly the _friendliest_ of things. Cassandra snorts under her breath and shifts her weight to her other foot, arms crossed as she glares the thing down.

She really wishes that the Inquisitor would just ride a damned horse. But Dorian was right – the dracolisks are good for riding in the desert. The hart overheats and needs too much water, the horses have trouble walking on the sand and get spooked easily. And the warhorses need just as much water and vegetation as the hart does.

The dracolisk, at least, is more likely to charge whatever tries to attack it – and its rider – than run away. And it eats meat.

Cassandra still doesn’t have to like it.

The thing blinks its eerie eye at her and scratches at the ground with its claws.

The Inquisitor is having trouble staying on the thing’s back.

“It’s so bony. And _small_.” She says, squeezing her thighs together, “I’m not used to riding something so small. I don’t like this.”

She can practically taste Bull refraining from commenting. She raises her mental evaluation of him up. Slightly.

Lavellan eventually gains her balance, though she looks disconcerted and uncomfortable. She turns to look Bull in the eye, hesitant, before nodding. Bull hands her the reigns and steps back. One step. Two steps. Three steps.

The dracolisk makes a clicking sound, neck stretching out against the reigns. Lavellan looks every bit as nervous as Cassandra feels on the inside.

The reptile stretches its hind legs out, claws making rasping sounds against the dirt as it walks forward, pulling against the reigns, twisting around to try and look at the Inquisitor. Lavellan attempts to get it walking in a straight line and it makes an angry noise. Cassandra feels her mouth pull down as she gets ready to step in. The dracolisk is snorting out smoke, now, and it snaps its teeth as it attempts to twist around and bite -

The hart lets out a low, ominous _rumble._

The dracolisk freezes.

Cassandra turns and Solas has one hand on the hart’s side, and the stag has lowered its head to point his antlers straight at the dracolisk.

The reptile _cowers_.

Lavellan fidgets.

Solas whispers something to the hart in elven and the stag snorts, pawing the ground before tossing its head up. The picture of regality when he isn’t _screaming_.

The dracolisk straightens up, shooting nervous glances at the hart as Lavellan guides it through its paces.

Cassandra snorts. If the thing won’t behave unless Lavellan’s hart is there to make it behave, they might as well use the _bog unicorn_ after all.

She reaches behind her to pat the nose of said unicorn.

Bull casts a wary glance at her as he leads the dracolisk back towards the stables and she leads the unicorn towards Lavellan to try next.

“You win this time, Seeker.” Bull mutters as they pass.

Cassandra smirks as Lavellan swings up into the saddle. “Was there ever any doubt?”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole tells her. They are on the floor. She is drunk. Her room is quiet. He is helping.

“She’s spending too much time with that _demon_.” Vivienne says.

“Well, I don’t know why you’re telling _me_ this.” Dorian replies and desperately wishes he didn’t choose to make himself comfortable in a nook of the library with no escape but a narrow, _narrow_ window that only Lavellan and Sera could probably squeeze through with a generous application of oil. “And he isn’t a _demon_. He’s a _spirit_. A vast world of difference.”

Madame de Fer is less than impressed as she folds her arms, hip slightly cocked.

“My dear, it is common knowledge that while Cassandra is her keeper and the Iron Bull is her watcher, _you_ are the one she listens to.”

“Does no one actually hear me when she drags me to the arse end of nowhere kicking and screaming? No one?”

“She cares about your opinions – “

“She cares about everyone’s _feelings_. Terribly bothersome. Skyhold is going to fill up at this rate. I can’t go five minutes without tripping over some poor, enchanted sod who’s singing her praises and doesn’t know that she’s actually a wicked, tricky thing.”

“ – and turns to _you_ with almost everything.” Vivienne raises an eyebrow. “That is quite a lot of power to hold over someone.”

Dorian shifts, uncomfortable and hoping that Lavellan chooses now to use her strange and uncanny ability to walk in on situations without knowing it. Alas, she remains out of sight and thus unable to rescue Dorian from this mess.

“The demon is a bad influence.” Vivienne says. “She’s started to speak like it, as well.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. He can’t imagine anyone speaking like Cole.

“I asked her if she wanted the tailor from Val Royeux to come here or if she would rather go to him. Her response was _no_. It was not a yes or no question. Then she tipped over the edge of the balcony and gave some servants a terrible fright.”

Sounds like her, alright.

“I gather that the Inquisitor isn’t keen on getting a new wardrobe, then.” Dorian idly knocks the spine of the book Cassandra lent him on his knee. “Let me guess, you disapprove? Well. I can’t do anything about it. She likes Cole. I like Cole. And he hasn’t done any harm.”

“Yet.”

“Madame, if we all lived our lives on the word _yet_ , I dare say that none of us would even be here. After all – neither of us are abominations. _Yet_.”

-

“I will kill the dwarf.” Cassandra declares. Leliana hums. “He’s lost her. He’s lost the _Herald of Andraste_.”

“How does one lose the Herald of Andraste?”

Cassandra shoots her a look. “You know full well how he did it. You let him get away with it.”

“There was no harm. And how was I supposed to predict it would go awry?” Leliana ties off the message and sends her bird out, takes a moment to pray the message arrives in time to be useful. “Clairvoyance is not among my talents, Cassandra, flattering as that may be of you to think so.”

Cassandra sighs, leaning her hip against the desk, “Anyone could’ve seen it would have gone _awry_.”

“Let her have her fun, Cassandra. It cannot all be death and sacrifice.” Leliana touches her fingers to Cassandra’s arm before picking up a stack of missives from Scout Harding, sorting them into piles. “She deserves to be more than that.”

“I’m not arguing against that. I’m just – “

“She needs to be safe.”

“Yes.”

“And she is as safe as we can make it for her. She is the Inquisitor. She will never be completely safe.” She is an elf. A mage. A woman. The list could go on and on.

Nothing alive is ever _truly_ safe.

Leliana runs a thumb over the crease in a report, smoothing the paper out to read it. Cassandra’s breath leaves her and Leliana knows she has won this round, for now.

“Haven will not repeat.” Leliana adds on. “No one here would allow it. The Herald may place herself in danger, but it is us who are there to get her out of it. It is our role. It is our duties.”

“The dwarf doesn’t have to make it so _difficult_.” Cassandra says, turning to glance out the window. “If they are not back by sundown – “

“Then they will probably be camping or gathering elfroot.” Leliana says, tapping Cassandra’s shoulder with a scroll. “Deliver this to Solas on your way down, a response to some of his queries' from our researchers in the College.”

Cassandra sighs and takes the message, “I do not understand how you are always so calm.”

“A calm face hides a multitude of storms.”

-

“You are on the floor. Why are you on the floor? You aren’t hurting. You don’t feel like hurting.” Cole says, crouching down to blink at her. Lavellan touches his nose. Laughs.

“ _Boop_.”

Cole blinks. Then reaches out and touches her nose.

“Boop.”

Lavellan laughs, a light sound that flutters upwards. Cole tilts his head, large hat shadowing them both.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“I don’t know.” She laughs some more, makes a beckoning motion with her hand. “Cole, _Cole_.”

“I am Cole.” He replies, leaning down, blinking at her. “Lavellan. Lavellan. _Falon._ Friend. Hello.”

“Hello.” She sighs, curling her fingers through his. “Cole. I’m on the floor and I don’t know why.”

“Do you want to be not on the floor?”

“I don’t know, Cole. I think I drank too much. I don’t want to go up the stairs.”

“Quiet. Cold. Crushing. Too much air. Too much sky. The edge of the world. Swallowed. Swallowing. Swarmed. Alone.” Cole says, “You are not alone. But the room makes you feel it. Mountains. Staid and steady.”

Cole pauses then lies down next to her.

“Now we are both on the floor and you are not alone.” He says. “You don’t have to be alone. Dorian likes your room. Solas likes your dreams. I am with you. You are not alone. Loved and held, cradled in the hands and hearts of many. Wonders do not cease.”

She blinks at him, her eyes are bright through her eyelashes. Smiling.

She squeezes his fingers.

“Thank you for joining me on the floor, Cole.”

“The floor doesn’t mind.” Cole says. “The stone likes the stories that stamp into it. Skyhold likes your story.”

“Will you tell me more about the stories in the stone?” She asks.

“Like Solas does?”

“Yes, like hahren does.”

“Dorian says that sometimes the stories are private, but they want to be heard.” Cole says. “They will be heard.”

“I will hear them.” She whispers. She is slipping, sliding, sleeping.

Cole tells her. They are on the floor. She is drunk. Her room is quiet. He is helping.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes I think the only reason you like the library is because you can pose while getting over a hangover and people would just think that you’re in serious contemplation over something important.”

The two of them are quiet, chattering to each other in a corner as they bend their heads over their work. Leliana  keeps an eye on them – occasionally checking in on their progress. The Inquisitor’s dark head is bowed as she struggles to fold paper. For all that the elf is easy to distract and somewhat – ah. Well.

When she means to focus, she focuses well.

“I am helping.” Cole whispers, voice carrying slightly in the aviary as he takes up a handful of the wobbling, wrinkled, and steadily getting better paper birds Lavellan was folding and carries them to the railing. “Purpose, purposeful. They are becoming what they are meant to be.” He drops them, one by one. “Drifting, free and real. They have become. They are becoming. Thank you. Fold upon fold, I am made.”

Leliana leans over the edge to watch them fall-wobble-drift and makes a mental note to apologize to Solas.

As the first crane touches down – drifting just shy of the candle on Solas’ desk, the man looks up, blinking at the steady parade of paper birds floating down at him. She thinks she sees a smile touch the corners of his mouth before he picks up the crane on his desk and tosses it into the air.

Leliana blinks and Cole makes a soft, surprised sound as the crane floats, slightly glowing and drifts back up again.

“They fly!” Cole exclaims, “Look!”

He turns and touches his fingers to Lavellan’s arm, she pauses in the middle of folding another bird – she will run out of paper, soon. It is a good thing that Leliana has so much scrap lying around – and turns -

“What?”

“He makes them be more than shadows of what they are becoming.” Cole says, “They fly, now. For you. Look.”

Lavellan and Cole move to peer over the edge and one by one, Solas is plucking the falling cranes out of the air and off the rotunda floor, and tossing them back up in the air again. They drift, aimless, some floating up, some side to side, like dust motes.

“ _Oh_.” Lavellan whispers, eyes wide as she watches them.

When Solas finishes he nods at the pair and returns to his work, paper birds still suspended.

One of them drifts close to the two, and Lavellan stretches out, Cole automatically putting his hands on her waist as she leans over the rail to touch her finger to it. The crane bumps away and she lets out a startled laugh.

“It feels _like mana!”_ She exclaims. “Cole, feel!” She bats at the air, trying to get the crane closer again. It dances away from her fingers, wobbling.

Leliana smiles as she watches, turning to one of her runners – who is also watching and smiling – and clears her throat.

“As you were saying?”

The runner turns back to her, blinking as he shakes his head, “Ah. Yes, mistress – ah. Reports from the Hissing Wastes – “

Behind her she hears the soft sounds of Cole and Lavellan whisper-talking about the birds. And here, in the middle of war, she is glad for this small moment.

-

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a crush on Hawke.” Dorian says, “But I do know better, or at least – I hope I do. You could do _so_ much better.”

Lavellan shoots him a dirty look. “I don’t.”

“Good.” Dorian says, “Glad that’s settled.”

She fidgets.

“But – it’s just – _it’s Hawke_.” She whispers, tugging at the hem of her tunic. “ _Hawke_. As in _The Champion, Hawke_. And Hawke is _here_. At _Skyhold_. I read the entire book front to back _four times_. I learned to _read_ on that story.”

“How _did_ you react when you met Varric?”

“With dignity!”

Dorian snorts, “Unlikely. I bet you didn’t even know he was _the_ Varric Tethras until later.”

“That’s beside the point! Hawke is _here_. At _Skyhold_.” Lavellan throws her hands up, “And I don’t know how to open my mouth without sounding like an inexperienced _da’len_.”

“You _are_ an inexperienced _da’len_.” Solas’ voice softly drifts up from below them. She flushes scarlet. “Lower your voice and remember that what you know is not what others know. Knowledge and experience come in many forms and are not inherently unequal to other types.”

“Sorry, hahren.” She mumbles.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “And there you have it. Problem solved. Hawke is experienced in watching a city fall about their ears, you’re experienced in tripping through the fade and surviving impossible situations.”

“It’s _Hawke_.”

“I know, and it’s _you_.” Dorian says, “Sit down, you’re going to make me dizzy with your arm-waving and such. Be kind to me, I’ve only _just_ started to get over my drunken hang-over.”

“You’re the one who said that drinking with the Chargers, Sera, _and_ Varric was just asking for punishment.” She mumbles, folding herself neatly into the space between three stacks of teetering books. He envies that kind of effortless grace in her. She could make tripping down a flight of stairs look like poetry in motion.

“For you. Punishment when _you_ do it. That doesn’t apply to me.” Dorian flicks invisible dust off his knee. “Now shush while I sit here and recover in silence.”

“Sometimes I think the only reason you like the library is because you can pose while getting over a hangover and people would just think that you’re in serious contemplation over something important.”

“My dear, that is because I _am_ in serious contemplation over something important.” Dorian crosses his legs, leaning his head against his fingers as he stares at a vague point outside the window. He lets his eyes unfocus.

“How to beat Cullen in your next game?” Dorian smiles.

“ _Someone_ has to knock that man’s smug attitude down a peg. There’s only room for one ridiculously handsome and self-aware intelligent man around here and it will be _me_.”

Lavellan snorts but falls quiet as she starts flipping through one of the simpler books she’s been using to practice Orlesian.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No." Lavellan knows that if she stops this, Sera will probably do something worse elsewhere, where Lavellan won't be there. "This isn't dangerous, is it?"

"Sera, no."  
  
"Sera, _yes_." The other girl replies, waving a hand at Lavellan, "Just sit there and keep quiet, alright? I've got this. Totally. Yeah. This. Don't watch if you don't want."  
  
"I can't look away." Lavellan replies, voice lowering to match Sera's quiet whisper, "It's like - it's like watching Cassandra go on a warpath. I _know_ it's not going to end well, but I can't look away."  
  
Sera snickers as she finishes tying the string to spring her trap. "Heh. Good one. I like that. _Cassandra on a warpath_. You tell Varric that one, yet? He could use it in his books for the Lady Guard. A different sort of _warpath_ , though." Sera hums, "Why are all my jokes and good ideas so wasted on you? We need to get you a squeeze. If that's your thing? _Is_ that your thing?"  
  
"Squeeze?" Lavellan repeats blinking.  
  
"Never mind." Sera rolls her eyes, getting up and inspecting her work.  
  
"I feel like I should stop this." Lavellan says as she follows the strings to the bucket full of - well. She didn't get here in time to see that bit. She just knows that it's a bucket full of something. Maybe if she doesn't know what that something is, it's better. Cullen and Leliana are always talking about _plausible deniability_. This is what they mean, she thinks. Not knowing what's in the bucket.  
  
"Probably." Sera agrees, humming one of the Charger's songs that Lavellan's not allowed to repeat in front of Vivienne or Cassandra - or Cole, or Solas, or Cullen, or Dorian. Lavellan wrinkles her nose. There are a lot of people she's not allowed to repeat things to whenever she spends time with the Chargers. Why is that?  
  
"You gonna?" Sera says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You gonna stop me?"  
  
"No." Lavellan knows that if she stops this, Sera will probably do something worse elsewhere, where Lavellan won't be there. "This isn't dangerous, is it?"  
  
"It's dangerously _funny_ , s'what it is." Sera says, "Go run along, fancy-pantsy. You'll know when this one gets sprung. Promise."  
  
"I'd rather that you didn't promise me that." Lavellan mutters, makes a mental note to tell Dorian and Solas to avoid this area of Skyhold. Out of everyone she knows, they're the only two most likely to get caught up in it, after all. They always walk around with books in their faces. She's honestly surprised they haven't tripped or fallen yet.  
  
-  
  
Solas finds her lying down on some debris in the sun, squinting at an old looking book  that she's holding over her head.  
  
"Some light reading, da'len?" He asks, pausing to lean over her. "May I suggest finding an actual chair?"  
  
"The rocks are warm." She replies, "You may suggest it, hahren, but I don't think I'll listen."  
  
Solas' lips twitch upwards, "I will suggest it, anyway, then. For my own peace of mind and so that I may say that at least one person said so to you, later. When the Seeker finds you."  
  
"I don't know how she does it."  
  
Solas refrains from saying that between Leliana's spies and Cassandra's tenacity it is unlikely that Lavellan will ever get well and truly lost, by her own volition or not. He tucks the books he was bringing to Dalish under his arm, "May I ask what you are reading? Is it any good?"  
  
"It is a book that Cole and I found while we were in the Emerald Graves." She says, frown twisting her vallaslin as she tilts the book this way and that. "About - well. I'm not _sure_ what it's about. It's about sex, I _think_."  
  
Solas raises an eyebrow and holds out his hand, she hands it to him, sitting up, crossing her legs underneath her as he flips through it, eyebrows continuing to raise.  
  
"And you say that you just _found_ this in the Emerald Graves?"  
  
"Well - there was an abandoned mansion and red templars and such. But yes." She rocks from side to side a little, hands clasping her ankles. "We thought it was a love story but I don't think there's anything about love _in_ the book."  
  
"No. Not really." Solas says, closing  the book and turning it to examine the cover, " _Hm_."  
  
"Do you understand it, hahren?"  
  
"Yes." Solas replies.  
  
Lavellan makes a frustrated sound -  
  
"And _no_ , I will not explain it to you." Solas adds on.  
  
"Is it dirty? That's the main reason why people don't explain things to me. I know what sex is. I have _eyes_. There's not much room for privacy in the middle of the woods, you know."  
  
"It's a discourse on the types of relationships that are formed in the various nations of Thedas, da'len." Solas taps her forehead lightly with the spine of the book, amused. "You do not need to know any of it, unless you are planning on a political marriage anytime soon. _Are_ you?"  
  
Lavellan snorts, "No."  
  
"Then there you have it. Besides, I think you are acquainted with examples of the more common types listed in this book." Solas says, "Or you could always ask Dorian."  
  
-  
  
"Hahren - "  
  
"No."  
  
"But - "  
  
" _No_." Solas repeats, "Stop listening to Dalish when she tells stories."  
  
"But _hahren_." Lavellan continues to follow Solas around the rotunda, stopping short of actually tugging on his tunic. "It sounds like fun and we can't do it with just _two_ people."  
  
"What about Skinner?"  
  
"Skinner says no."  
  
" _I_ am saying no."  
  
"Isn't the role of the hahren to teach?" Lavellan points out, trying to make him look at her as he mixes paint.  
  
"Is it not the role of the da'len to listen?" Solas returns raising an eyebrow at her, "No. I am not particularly fond of that sort revelry. And I am not going to encourage it in _you_ , if I can help it. Are there no other elves in all of Skyhold that you can ask?"  
  
"Well there are, but they aren't _you_." Lavellan mutters, obediently going to fetch the water for the brushes when he makes a gesture, "It's a dance to celebrate the bond between elders! What's so wrong about that?"  
  
"I do not _dance_ for _Elgar'nan_." Solas replies, voice clipped as he begins adding in more details to the mural that depicts what happened at Haven. "Or for _Andruil_ , or any of the other pantheon, for that matter."  
  
Lavellan sulks as she lays the bowl down on the table next to him and curls up at the tables' legs. "You're no fun."  
  
"That's what makes me a hahren." He replies, dry as he focuses on the mural, "Which reminds me that you missed our last appointment for your study on runes."  
  
Lavellan winces. "Well. Yes. About that..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book is the Codex Entry: Sexuality in Thedas


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can I add that to the list of why you're her favorite?" Bull says, carefully ramming against Cullen's shield with his own. Cullen grunts, eyes tightening but not closing. "It's because you fret over her like that, but you do it in a quiet way. Great contrast to the Seeker."

"Sometimes I _wonder_ about you." Lavellan says as she sticks a leaf to Cole's cheek, he holds very still for her. "I worry when I can't find you, did you know that?"  
  
"Where has _da'elgar_ gone? Missing? Come back, come back, _ma'falon_." Cole whisper-repeats, watery eyes blinking under his bangs. He holds up an acorn. "For you. I'll come back. I like it here. I like you. You help people. You help me help people. I like being near you. It feels like sunlight."  
  
Lavellan takes the acorn, running her fingers over it, "It's lovely, Cole."  
  
"A little piece of home." Cole says, "To carry with you when you go far, far away."  
  
She kisses his cheek, right on the center of the leaf. "You look absolutely charming like this, did you know? Charming is such an odd word. Who are you charming and what _for_? Vivienne uses it as an endearment, I think. I can't really tell. I think it's supposed to be a good thing, though."  
  
Cole picks up a leaf and sticks it to her cheek. "Now we are both charming, even if we do not know what it means. I found a field of flowers, sleeping, playing, singing for you. They were pretty, pretty like the poppies but better because it was not a sea of red."  
  
Lavellan blinks.  
  
"Poppy like Varric calls you." Cole says, "Like your favorite."  
  
"Oh." She smiles, "Thank you, Cole."  
  
"I can take you there."  
  
"Now?"  
  
Cole tilts his head, "Yes. If you want."  
  
Lavellan is almost absolutely certain that someone is going to track her down to make her do something like put on proper shoes - she's wearing shoes, just not _proper_ ones, apparently, isn't it enough that she's wearing them? - or practice dancing or something that's going to drive her absolutely insane.  
  
"Yes!" She replies, bouncing to her feet and tugging Cole up. "Let's go! We should bring Dorian."  
  
"Dorian does not say _no_ , even when he feels like he should. To make her happy, she deserves that doesn't she? Infectious, spreading, her smile, lovely. _Love_." Cole says, "He wouldn't say no, even if he _says_ it. He doesn't really mean it most of the time."  
  
Lavellan laughs, swinging Cole's hand with hers, "I know. Dorian has an _image_ to maintain, Cole. He has to at least _pretend_ to put up a fight before coming with me to do things. He enjoys it, _really_. I'm going to make him into a proper _frolicking woodland animal_ in no time. Just watch."  
  
-  
  
"It's not a game." She snaps as she walks around the rotunda. "It's not like - that game the Orlesians play where they buy things in a set? Collection? _Collections_. It's not like I'm collecting religions. I'm not. You can't just _add_ in the Maker. Who would even _want_ to add in the Maker? He's _mean_."  
  
Solas hums. "Should I ask?"  
  
"Yes. No. Definitely _yes_." She glares up at the mural of Celene. "Everyone keeps saying I'm the Herald of Andraste and no one's asked me what I think about that. I know, I know. It's good for my reputation, it gives me power, something, something, I stopped listening, sorry." Solas raises an eyebrow, not looking up from his notes on the runes they found at the Exalted Plains. "Sometimes the advisors talk for so long that I can't help it? I try not to, I mean, I know it's rude to sort of - anyway. Point. _My_ point. Right. _Um_. Mother Giselle suggested that maybe I could make room in my heart for the Maker but none of them seem willing to make room in _their_ hearts for Mythal or Sylaise, or any of the others. I don't _want_ to convert. There seems to be an awful lot of burning and fire going on in the Chantry."  
  
Lavellan turns to give him a worried look, "If I convert, I think I'm required to wear shoes at all times. And know the Chant of Light. Did you know I once asked Cullen to teach me the first part of the Chant and he gave me a very _odd_ look and told me that it would take an entire week to recite the first part of the Chant of Light? That is _ridiculous_ , hahren, that is absolutely _ridiculous_. Who could have that much tucked away in their brain? Don't they need room for other things?"  
  
"Cullen has room for it, apparently." Solas replies.  
  
" _Aside_ from Cullen! It's his _job_ to know." She waves her hands, "It's what he _does_."  
  
Solas' lips twitch upwards. "Do not take it to heart, _lethallin_. They do not mean harm by it. Just as you do not mean harm whenever you accidentally say something towards me of the Dalish, or Sera of mages."  
  
"Yes, but when I say those things I don't say it with the underlying idea of _converting_ you." Lavellan protests, "I mean. You know what you are, she knows what she is. I know what I am. Why is this so hard for people? And Sera. _Sera_. Please don't bring Sera up right now. I almost electrocuted her _mostly_ on accident the other day and I don't think I'm quite calm enough to talk about it."  
  
"I can see that." Solas says, waving a hand at her, "You are emitting static."  
  
"Oh." Lavellan winces. "Well. See, aren't we all glad that I'm not attuned to fire like Dorian, now?"  
  
-  
  
"Why am I always the one explaining things about the Chantry?" Cullen asks, "Cassandra and Leliana were the Right and Left Hands of the _Divine_. I would think that they would be the resident experts on such things."  
  
"You were a templar. An extremely devout templar - "  
  
"I think saying I was _extremely devout_ is going a _bit_ far, I should think."  
  
" - and you're her _favorite_." Bull tacks on, grinning at the incredulous look Cullen gives him. "Leliana and Josephine put her through that entire training course for Halamshiral. Cassandra is constantly breathing down her neck to put on shoes and watches over her like a mother bear. Mother Giselle makes her nervous. _You_? You suffered as much as she did at that stupid ball, you're friends with her best friend, you tolerate her questions, and you knew Varric. Also, you're the guy who has her back and her _army_. The list could go on for a while, but - Favorite. And that means answering questions that may not exactly be your field of expertise. Though it is. Fairly sure that you, Leliana, and Mother Giselle are the only three people she knows who knows the full Chant. Pretty sure you're the only three people this side of the fucking Frost Backs who knows the damned thing."  
  
Cullen sighs, "Still. I may know the Chant, but that doesn't mean I know _everything_. Flattering as that may be."  
  
"Of course it does." Bull snorts, "You know the Chant, you were a Templar, you're her knight in shining, furry armor - "  
  
Cullen scowls, Bull ignores him.  
  
" - so. Questions get thrown at you. Whether you know the answer or not."  
  
"Ridiculous." Cullen sighs, "Someday someone is going to put me on a list and have me dealt with because I taught the Herald of Andraste the wrong bloody thing. I'm a soldier not a _theologian_."  
  
"Fancy words for a soldier, Cullen."  
  
"Shut it, spy." Cullen sucks in a breath. Bull tilts his head -  
  
"Ready for round two?"  
  
"Your lieutenant must be a secret golem." Cullen deadpans, standing up and picking up the training shield again. "He doesn't even move when you hit him."  
  
"Sure he does. You should hear him back talk me. The sass on that one. I hope the Boss doesn't pick that up. She'd get put on a list faster than you could blink."  
  
"Please don't tell me what a bad influence your lieutenant is while said lieutenant is teaching the Inquisitor." Cullen sighs, "It's very worrisome."  
  
"Can I add that to the list of why you're her favorite?" Bull says, carefully ramming against Cullen's shield with his own. Cullen grunts, eyes tightening but not closing. "It's because you fret over her like that, but you do it in a quiet way. Great contrast to the Seeker."


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hello Josephine." The Inquisitor half-whispers, "I'm afraid I won't be able to do anything today. Possibly ever again. I cannot move."

"Inquisitor - forgive the intrusion, it is half mark past the ninth bell and you have not come down, are you well?" Josephine quietly makes her way up the flight of stairs, eyes falling to the Inquisitor's small form lying down - for once - on the bed.  
  
"Hello Josephine." The Inquisitor half-whispers, "I'm afraid I won't be able to do anything today. Possibly ever again. I cannot move."  
  
Josephine's eyes widen in surprise and concern, ready to go call for a healer -  
  
"There are little kittens sleeping on me, you see." The Inquisitor continues. "If I move, I will wake them up. I'm not waking them up."  
  
Josephine lets out a sigh of relief, then pauses, "Kittens?"  
  
"Yes." The Inquisitor replies, "Kittens."  
  
Josephine leans over the Inquisitor, eyebrows steadily climbing as she counts - five, six kittens. One sleeping on the Inquisitor's stomach, tucked underneath her palm, one tucked inside the curve of her elbow, another in the dip between her shins, two right next to her neck, and another half on her chest, half under her arm.  
  
"So will you please cancel everything I have for today, and apologize to Vivienne because I can't go to my dance lesson, and hahren because it looks like I won't be studying that book on mushrooms after all." Lavellan blinks up at Josephine, entirely straight faced.  
  
"Because of kittens." Josephine replies, lip twitching upwards. This is - probably going to be one of the oddest things she's ever going to have to explain away. She supposes that she should be used to explaining odd things by now. "Of course, Inquisitor." Josephine smiles, "When they wake up, do tell me."  
  
"Of course." Lavellan says, smiling back. "You're the _best_ Josephine."  
  
"Your wish is my command, your worship." Josephine says, already wondering how to explain this to everyone relevant. It'll be a hard sell. But she'll manage it. Somehow. Cullen and Leliana would most likely help. They're both soft for the Herald. Or at least, Leliana is. Cullen is just wrapped around the Herald's thin fingers like the rest of Skyhold. Josephine isn't sure if that's pure charisma and talent or some sort of magical gift. Either way it is a thing of beauty to behold and makes her work so much easier.  
  
On her way down she comes across Dorian, holding a tray of food -  
  
His lip twitches upwards, "Cole informed me that our dear Inquisitor has taken to bed. A case of kittens, he says. Won't be up the rest of the day. Perfect opportunity for breakfast in bed and enforced studying, won't you say?"  
  
Josephine's eyes flick towards the books tucked underneath his arm and shakes her head, laughing under her breath as he gives her a theatrical half-bow - food balanced on his fingers like a performer and gliding up the stairs like a dancer.  
  
"Lavellan, my dear, we've got studying to do. Aren't you _excited_?" He softly calls out. Josephine hears Lavellan's groan-whine just before the door closes behind her.  
  
-  
  
"Sometimes I - " She fidgets, pauses, "Do you ever miss anyone? From the Qun?"  
  
Bull pauses, mug half-way to his mouth. "Some people. Memories of them."  
  
"I miss my clan." Lavellan mumbles. "They're dead and missing them doesn't do anything. It's not very productive and they wouldn't want me to be sad. The Keeper wanted me to be happy. She wanted me safe. So I shouldn't miss her. But I do. And I miss - " She cuts herself off, shaking her head as she lays her head down on the table. "It doesn't matter who I miss. I just miss them."  
  
"I think that's normal, Boss." Bull says, gently resting his hand on her back. He can feel her narrow bones shifting under his palm. His one hand covers the breadth of her shoulders. "We all miss people."  
  
Sometimes he thinks of his Tamasirin. Sometimes he thinks of the others he trained with. Grew up with. But he doesn't miss them in the way that she misses her clan. He misses them differently. He isn't young anymore. He made better relationships. It gets easier with time. He feels things differently, something in his brain got wired up different from hers. From the rest of Thedas.  
  
"It helps to talk about it, I hear." Bull says.  
  
"I thought hitting things with a stick helps."  
  
"Getting hit with a stick." Bull corrects. "But that's fear. This is _sadness_. Different tactics for different monsters."  
  
She picks at the wood with a small finger for a moment. Bull's hand rests on her back and he drinks with the other. Waits. She tucks in close to his side. Small little saarebas, curled up, folded like ribbon and paper and steel.  
  
Layers.  
  
"His name was Mahanon." She whispers. "And I loved him. He was my _lethalllan_." Her eyes close. "Part of me. Brother without blood. _Ma'falon._ He was going to be sent to the conclave. But I wanted to go, and he always let me have my way. So he talked to the Keeper for me. They all said I was too young, too inexperienced, but Mahanon was always so good with his words. You would have liked Mahanon. Everyone loved Mahanon. If I didn't speak to him, he would have lived. He wouldn't have let the clan die. He wouldn't have let Haven fall. He would have this all fixed."  
  
She shivers.  
  
"And now he's dead and there is no one to plant his tree." She breathes, a deep shuddering sigh. "Because I killed them all. I killed him. _Ma'falon_."  
  
Bull brushes the hair from her face.  
  
"You didn't kill them." He says. "You did what you could. And you're right. If this Mahanon could hear what you're saying, he wouldn't be happy. Your clan wouldn't be happy if they could hear what you're saying right now..They'd want you to remember the best of them, I mean. Who wants to be remembered in a shitty way? Probably aren't happy that their memory makes you cry, either.. Tell me more about Mahanon and your Keeper. Tell me about the shit you got up to when you were a kid. You never did tell me about that thing with the fox."  
  
Lavellan is quiet for a long moment. "I didn't?"  
  
"Nope. Promised you would but got sidetracked talking about Dalish's bow." Bull says, Lavellan sits up a little, blinking wetness away from her eyes as she clears her throat. She raises her hands, ready to tell-sign her story.  
  
"Well. The clan was - " She begins. And Bull listens. And he watches.  
  
She tells all.  
-  
  
"You're crying. Why are you crying? You can't be crying, I'm _terrible_ with crying. I'm going to start crying too. Then what would we do? The only two good looking people in Skyhold in tears and unable to speak, rendered useless. The Inquisition would collapse underneath us."  
  
"I thought Cullen and Krem could stand in for us." Lavellan hiccups, wiping at her face with her sleeve as Dorian hovers next to her, fingers twitching.  
  
"Yes, in a _pinch_ , but then they'd open their mouths and ruin the illusion. Could you imagine? Krem would open his mouth and punches would start flying. Cullen opens his mouth and suddenly people are throwing their small clothes at him while he makes a fighting retreat for his tower of solitude."  
  
Lavellan snorts a laugh, though it sounds a little pained.  
  
"Oh." Dorian sighs, opening his arms, "Come here, daft girl. What's wrong?"  
  
"I don't know." She sobs, fingers curling into his robes. "I'm just in a crying mood. People just get into crying moods sometimes, don't they?"  
  
"I don't." Dorian rubs her back, swaying them back and forth a little.  
  
"Because you're _perfect_." Lavellan whines, tucking her face into his chest. "And you smell nice. The middle of the mountains and somehow you smell nice. That's ridiculous, Dorian. You smell like sunlight. I want to smell like sunlight, too."  
  
"Then you can borrow my soap and take a bath like a civilized person instead of wading into streams and ponds and waterfalls. Now, what's brought on this crying mood? One has to start somewhere. Law of adequate reason and whatnot."  
  
"I don't know. I just - I was just re-reading _Hard in Hightown_ and I got to the part where they introduce the Knight Captain and then I got sad because that's supposed to be _Cullen_ , Dorian. And then I thought about how much I didn't like the Knight Captain at first, but I know him now and he's my _friend_. And then I got sad because I might never have met him and what if he stayed in Kirkwall and Kirkwall makes him so unhappy, and what if I never met _you_?  You never say anything happy about when you lived in Tevinter. And then I thought about how when this is over you'll go back to Tevinter and I might never see you again and what if Cullen wants to go back to the Templars? Lyrium does such terrible things and he's so sad and I don't want my friends to be sad and then I remembered that he gets stabbed in the book and I don't want anyone to get stabbed and then I dropped the book and hurt my foot and I started crying and now I can't stop."  
  
"Well. First of all, Cullen is not going back to the templars. And you know that. He's surrendered his title, stopped with this whole ingesting lyrium _nonsense_ these southerners have come up with, and is dedicated to the Inquisition. Also if he left I'm certain that he'd write you, or send missives to you - he's terrible at keeping contact, have you read the letters his sister has sent him? I expect to find her at Skyhold's doorstep any day now with an army of children yelling up at him, it would be _marvelous_ for morale, truly - to make sure you're taking care of yourself like a proper person who takes baths in tubs." Dorian pauses when Lavellan smacks his shoulder with her hand. "Moving on. Did you honestly think you'd be so easily rid of me? I should think not. I don't let just anyone cry on my good silk, you know. You'll be getting letters from me in droves. You'll need a whole new aviary to house the birds I'm going to send you. And the south has such rustic charm. I might have to visit once in a while. Make sure that you're still around and doing well and not doing foolish things like jumping off of towers - "  
  
"It was the fastest way down!"  
  
" - and baiting bears - "  
  
"That wasn't _me_!"  
  
" - and, of course, to make sure you haven't driven anyone insane. If you do, I want to watch. It is such a lovely show."  
  
Lavellan snorts.  
  
"As for the foot - well. I can't do anything about that, you've got hurt worse and haven't cried about it. I propose we just have a nice sit and gossip about our favorite people and you can tell me all about what the Commander said to you while he was studying the chess board."  
  
"I'm not giving away Cullen's chess strategy." Lavellan says, peering up at him with red rimmed eyes. "Also. I'm sorry I cried on your favorite silk. It's an expensive dye imported from Antiva."  
  
Dorian grins, moving back a little to wipe her eyes with frost-chilled fingers. "That's my girl. At least something sticks in that head of yours. Glad to know it's my wardrobe. It is impressionable, isn't it?"

-

"No. I do not want to. Solas, you can tell him to stop. Tell him to stop." Cole ducks behind Solas' chair as the elf watches the scene in amusement.

"Cole, it's a trim, it's not going to kill you." Dorian sighs, tapping the scissors against the desk. "You have hair in your face and you could use a little cleaning up. Don't be silly, now. I often find myself wondering how you can see anything at all with all that over your eyes."

"I can see lots of things." Cole protests. "You don't make Blackwall cut his hair."

"Blackwall is a grown man and I don't actually care what that bear looks like. I care about  _you_." Dorian says. "And it's not proper the way you go around looking like that. Don't you want to look a little bit decent, just a little? You have hair all over your face, Cole."

"You have hair on  _your_ face."

Dorian looks affronted, hand splaying across his chest. "This is different.  _This_ is a finely cultivated and tended mustache. It is part of my natural  _glory_."

"No one ever made _Solas_ cut  _his_ hair. And it was part of _his_ natural glory." Cole murmurs.

" _Cole_." Solas' quill scratches across the page as Dorian's eyebrows raise up.

"You had  _what_?"

There's a soft, high pitched gasp and the sound of papers fluttering down. The three of them look up to see the Inquisitor standing in the entryway to the rotunda, papers scattered on the floor as she claps her hands to her face, eyes bright with delight.

" _Hahren, you had hair?_ "

Solas pinches the bridge of his nose "It was another life. Another time.  _No_ , I am not going to talk about it, da'len."

Cole flickers over to try and hide behind Lavellan, hunching down behind her, hands protectively curled around the brim of his hat.

"You don't make  _her_ cut her hair and you  _love_ her." He accuses. Lavellan drops the papers she had just picked up again, hands flying to her hair.

"That's different and - well. To be honest, she could use a trim, too." Dorian says.

"No one is cutting my hair!" She exclaims, clutching at her head, "If you cut my hair how will I ever get bonded?"

Dorian's eyebrows raise at the same time Solas' does.

"What?"

"Dalish bonding ritual." She says, "You can ask Dalish - the elf with the bow, not Dalish, the people - about it. A woman with cut hair can't get bonded!"

"That is so  _untrue_." Dorian snorts.

"How would  _you_ know? You've never known any Dalish other than me!"

Solas' face is a mixed of amused and pained.

"And Solas wouldn't know. It's a  _lady_ thing. A Dalish lady thing. Of which he is neither." Lavellan declares, hands on her hips. "So no one touches my hair unless they want to take full responsibility."

Dorian rolls his eyes. "You don't even like your hair."

"There's a difference between me not understanding why shems are so obsessed with their hair looking a certain way and me not wanting people to  _hack it off_."

"I wouldn't  _hack_ it off, give me some credit." Dorian huffs, pauses - " _Cole!_ "

Lavellan turns around to find empty space, the spirit having taken his escape while she and Dorian were bickering. Dorian runs off in search of the boy -

"You are getting a  _trim_ even if it  _kills me!"_

 _"_ Dalish bonding ritual?" Solas raises an eyebrow.

Lavellan huffs, gathering the papers once more, now that her hair is out of danger. "It's not like anyone would  _know_ when I'm making it up. Dalish would go along with it. And I didn't see you correcting him."

Solas shakes his head, laughter playing at the corners of his eyes. "The next thing you know, you'll be convincing them that it's part of your culture to carry small animals in your pockets."

"For all they know it is." Lavellan huffs, "And my hands were  _occupied_ , how else was I supposed to carry the kittens?"


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know," Dorian says as he pets Lavellan's hair, her head on his lap as she naps, "If you really wanted to insult this dowager, you could tell her that prized painting she keeps going on about in her reception hall is a fake."

" _Kaffas_!" Dorian throws his hands into the air, "I don't even know what to say anymore. This has gone above and beyond everything you have ever done thus far. I would congratulate you except I am actually terrified of what you'll do next and don't want to encourage you to raise - or lower, as it were - the standards."  
  
"It's a banana." Lavellan marvels, turning the sad weapon over in her hands. "On a _stick_."  
  
"Show it to Krem." Sera suggests, "Rock on a stick, meet banana on a stick. You know what else is on a stick?" Her eyes slide towards Dorian.  
  
"Don't you even start with me." Dorian snaps, "Where did you get this - this idea from again?"  
  
Lavellan hums. "The Desolate Banks of the Exalted Plains. In a pile of snoufleur dung."  
  
"Thank the Maker I wasn't there for that - _why_ were you looking for things in a _dung_?"  
  
"I _wasn't_." She protests, taking a few experimental swings with the banana. "I just had a particular feeling about _that_ pile of dung in specific. The snoufleur told me it was a good idea."  
  
"Oh, yes, well if the _wildlife_ is telling you it's a good idea then by all _means_."  
  
Sera tries to make a grab for the weapon. "We should give this to Blackwall." She snickers, "He has a wheel of _cheese_."  
  
Lavellan giggles, "No. We shouldn't. That's _mean_. Oh, but we _should_ , shouldn't we?"  
  
Dorian presses his fingers to his forehead.  
  
"Cheese for shields. Finding weapon plans in dung. Fruit on sticks as a weapon. Drinking from random, ominously labeled bottles usually found next to corpses in abandoned, caved in, dank holes in the ground. This Inquisition nonsense is all just you playing a grand joke on us ignorant Andrastians, isn't it?"  
  
"Well, I don't know. I rather like the flower crowns Cole found." Lavellan says, "They smell pretty."  
  
Dorian sighs.  
  
-  
  
"I want you to know that I would deeply appreciate you forever and ever?" Lavellan tilts her head, trying to catch Solas' eyes as she trails after him. "Please? _Please_ , hahren?"  
  
" _Da'len._ " Solas replies, laughter in his voice, "What in the world makes you think _I_ would be good at gambling?"  
  
"A gut feeling. That's what Bull calls it. I don't know why. My stomach usually only feels things like being hungry and when I get hit there. But I just feel like you would be, you're good at everything. You haven't failed me yet." She says, tugging at his belt, "Please? Please? Teach me to play Wicked Grace?"  
  
"I thought the Chargers were teaching you."  
  
"They keep winning! I've lost all the acorns Cole gave me to gamble with. I want to get them back. Hahren, those acorns were a _gift_!"  
  
"Then perhaps you should not have risked them."  
  
She slips around from his side to his front. "But I ran out of paper cranes. And that's all I have."  
  
"I find myself amused that they aren't betting with money with you. I suppose I should thank them for having the decency not to." Solas says.  
  
"Their rules for Wicked Grace are different than mine!" Lavellan protests. "I was very good at this back with my clan, but the rules are different and I'm not sure how to cheat."  
  
Solas raises an eyebrow. Lavellan flushes.  
  
"Also I don't know what Diamondback is."  
  
Solas sighs, "You couldn't ask Dorian, or Josephine?"  
  
"Josephine wouldn't teach me and Dorian is only half-way decent at cards. He's better at chess." Lavellan rocks on the balls of her feet. "Please, please, _please_ , hahren? I need to win my acorns back! I promise to tell you whenever Sera puts something in your paint for the next two months."

"This is really that important to you?"

"They were a  _gift_."

Solas puts his fingertips on her shoulders, easing her down and holding her still. He waits until she stills of her own accord before letting his hands fall back to his sides.  
  
"If I teach you, will you promise to tell no one it was me?"  
  
Lavellan nods, "Yes! Also I _do_ know how to gamble, it's just that the rules are different and I don't understand half of the ways they explain them to me no matter how many times they do it. And everyone is giving me really, really confusing information and I think it's on purpose to put me off. And Dalish just sat there and laughed at me while polishing her bow. She didn't even help! I think she was helping Grim figure out how I was cheating. _Unfair_."  
  
"Cheating, in general is unfair." Solas replies, resigning himself tot his, "Do you have cards?"  
  
-  
  
"You know," Dorian says as he pets Lavellan's hair, her head on his lap as she naps, "If you really wanted to insult this dowager, you could tell her that prized painting she keeps going on about in her reception hall is a fake."  
  
Josephine raises an eyebrow. "She's been bragging for over a decade on how it's an original. Everyone who's everyone knows that it's one of the last paintings Rafael de Changy ever painted. Long thought lost."  
  
"Forgery." Dorian replies, carefully shifting his weight as he settles into the armchair, mindful of Lavellan's head. She makes a soft sound of discontent before drifting off again, limbs twitching. He idly wonders if she's chasing something in a dream. "The only thing worse than a shoddy forgery getting caught is a well done forgery that gets slathered in attention, yes?"  
  
"And how would you know that it's a forgery? You only saw it once, in _passing_."  
  
Considering that Dorian and Lavellan were practically being kicked out at the time, yes, he did only get a very, very _brief_ glance of it.  
  
"Well, I should think I'd know considering my mother owns the real thing." Dorian snorts, "I've only been staring at it every day as I walk towards the dining room for the first twenty or so odd years of my life, thank you."  
  
Josephine's face lights up as she grabs a new piece of parchment, "No, Lord Pavus, thank _you_. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy our talks?"  
  
"I may not be particularly fond of actually playing the Game, Josephine, but oh, how I do get extreme pleasure in the fact that my knowledge is of some use to ripping down particularly annoying flies." Dorian replies. "Also you're the only one in Skyhold who makes a decent cup of tea, did you know that? This one," He gently touches Lavellan's forehead, causing the girl to wrinkle her nose and raise a clumsy hand to bat at him in her sleep, "Keeps making everything medicinal. Imagine my surprise when I go for teacup and find my mouth going numb because of spindleweed and rashvine. _Honestly_."  
  
-  
  
There are so many little hurts and big hurts. So many of them in one space, but easing. Getting better all the time. Sometimes the little hurts go away. Sometimes the big hurts turn into little hurts. Sometimes they don't.  
  
He _is_ helping. He's learning how to do it better. He's learning when it's better to get someone else or ask for help. He's also learning when it's better to keep quiet. Secrets and privacy. It is hard, sometimes. Because if people just said what they wanted it would be _easier_ , he thinks. He's _sure_ of it.  
  
If Cullen would say that he wanted the lyrium, but wanted to stop _more_ to someone other than Cassandra, he thinks that more people would be easier on him. Dorian wouldn't get as upset whenever Cullen snaps at him. Madame Vivienne knows how to make tea for headaches, she makes them for herself and Josephine all the time. She would make them for him, too. Bull would help too, in his own way. Cole knows this. Why doesn't Cullen? It seems so obvious, but Cullen doesn't want anyone to know.  
  
And if Dorian told people why he was so afraid rather than saying other things - loud things, bright things, bold things like him but not always _him_ \- then they would help him pull himself out of the bottle and he would see things clear, clearing, cleared. Mouth sours, matches the mood - bitter and turning, I am _me_ and I am the dregs of a bottle of Butterbile, sucked dry. _Gone_.  
  
Blackwall's hurt is quiet, a lingering and stretching. Snapping soon. Something is going to change. Cole does not understand that one. He should not be sad anymore. It shouldn't hurt anymore. He is not the man who he thinks he is. He has changed. He is different. Why doesn't he _know_ that? If he said, if he told - anyone could see. _Anyone_ could tell.  
  
Solas' hurt is old. Ancient like him. But Cole cannot say. Cannot say, because it is so apart of him that he hides it underneath his skin and wears it like a mantle. A _crown_. Cole wants to help but Solas won't let him. He doesn't understand why he wants to carry that. Why? She could explain it to him, but he can't tell anyone, can't tell _her_. He wants to, though. She makes things better. _She_ could make it better for all of them.  
  
She carries weight so well, birds collected in her hands. Stones to birds, they fly away - set free, freeing, freed, she makes them all look skyward, homebound, sunset, horizon line, to tomorrow.  
  
Cole peers down at her over the railing of her loft, she curls up small and tired against the headboard. He can feel the dreams coming. Bad ones. Nightmares. Fear of fire and bandits and hall screaming, velvet kisses gone sour like Dorian's wine. Children with little hands and little hearts, bleeding out until the grass is a pool. Fool. Fool. Foolish _da'len_. Never learns. Why did you trust?  
  
Who do you trust?  
  
_The Inquisition._  
  
Cole pushes into the dream, softly - it wasn't you and you _know_ that. You couldn't save them. You couldn't have stopped this. They wouldn't want you to mourn. You are loved. He gently prods her away, turning her face from the fires of forests to the fires of the main hall. Varric kicking out a chair for her - Poppy, Popping, Poppy seed, red and orange and gold like warmth and sunlight and _hello, Cole_ , that is what he feels when she says hello, he wants her to feel that too, always - and Dorian swinging the door to the rotunda open, book brandished like a weapon as he calls for her - Solas in glimpses steady and solid.  
  
He holds the grass and blood and ash away as she walks into the stone and light and laughter. Smiles. Better.  
  
Hurts healing. Getting better all the time.  
  
There are so many little hurts and big hurts, and they are all terrible and he wants to fix them all but he can't. Sometimes you have to ask for help. Friends.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe. She only stared at the Commander from afar for two days before asking him about his vows.” Skinner says. “Maybe she just doesn’t know where to start with you?”

“You must sleep, _lethallin_.” Solas says, hand on her back as she pushes against the wall to try and keep on her feet. The library is dark and quiet, the only light coming from the still lit fires from the bottom floor. “You will drive yourself to exhaustion.”

“I don’t want to.” She croaks, eyes bloodshot as she grabs onto a shelf to keep herself steady. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m not – “

“You are tired and slowly destroying yourself. You have not been eating, either.”

“Since when were my eating habits people’s concern? We have a hole in the sky!”

“Since you stopped eating.” Solas says, slowly curling a hand around her arm and drawing her away from the shelf and towards the stairs. “Our companions are concerned for you. You have been wandering at night. They fear that you will come to harm – Skyhold is still not as safe as it could be.”

“I’m not dull. I know that Leliana and Cullen have people following me.” She mutters, head hanging as she rubs the heel of her hand against her eyes. “And I see better in the dark than any shem.”

“It is a shame that you cannot see reason, then, _da’len_.” Solas’ voice is firm even as she digs her heels in and attempts to resist. “If you insist on acting like a child, I will treat  you as one.Will you walk to your quarters of your own volition or will I carry you? Which do you prefer?”

Lavellan’s mouth presses into a thin line.

“I’m _not_ a child.”

“Odd, as you seem to be acting as if you were.” Solas says, squeezing her shoulder. “You act as if our concern for you is torture when it is well placed.”

“I don’t want to sleep.” She repeats.

Solas presses his thumb to her neck. “The dreams bother you. There are draughts for dreamless sleep. Spells. I believe Vivienne has been – making overtures.”

“I don’t want them.” Lavellan snaps, trying to pull away. Solas allows her to move away, but stands close, wary as she sways on her feet. “I just – I know what I’m doing. I’m. I’m an adult. A fully recognized First of my clan. I do not fear the Fade.”

“No. You fear that which you see within it.” Solas replies, holding his hands out to her, palms up. “ _Da’len_. It is not real.”

“Aren’t all things real? What does it matter if it happens in the waking world or not?”

Solas just holds his hands out for her, quiet and waiting. Lavellan wobbles before resting her hands over his. She feels his mana wash over her, calming and safe. She lets out a loud, rattling sigh.

“I don’t want to be alone.” She mumbles. Solas runs his thumbs over the back of her hands.

“I know. You need not be. You are surrounded in those who care for you. And they have opened their doors and beds to you before. They will not stop now.”

“I fear I make a poor bed partner as I am.” Lavellan says, eyes downcast. “I hit Cole. I didn’t mean to. But he woke me up and I _hit him_ , hahren. I hit him, and all he was doing was trying to stop me from setting my bed on fire. Creators, I feel terrible about it.”

“I am sure that Cole understands and does not blame you.”

“He _should_.”

“That is up to Cole to decide, now isn’t it?” Solas pulls her towards the stairs. “Come, rest, _da’len_. I will watch your dreams. Do not fear. You are not alone.”

Her eyes are barely managing to stay open by the time he has her lying down on the sofa Josephine had placed in the rotunda. She curls up small and a little stiff, clumsy with exhaustion.

Solas brushes her hair from her face, “Sleep, _da’len_. _Andaran atish’enera_.”

Lavellan yawns, eyes sliding closed as her fingers curl underneath her chin, folding away like a flower - “You aren’t alone, either, hahren. _Ma serannas, ma’falon_.”

-

Bull waits as the girl squints at him from over the top of Haven’s wooden fence. She’s been staring at him off and on – whenever she isn’t staring at the training soldiers, or back at something inside Haven’s walls. She’s a watcher. Good eyes. Don’t know if she knows what she’s looking at or if she understands, but she’s watching and that means there’s something of a good head on those narrow shoulders.

“She’s been starin’ at you for the past week.” Skinner says as she comes out of the tent she shares with Dalish. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s just as sheltered as Dalish probably was before you got to her.” Bull replies. Skinner snorts. “You think she’s gonna come down from there anytime soon?”

“Maybe. She only stared at the Commander from afar for two days before asking him about his vows.” Skinner says. “Maybe she just doesn’t know where to start with you?”

“Incomming.” Krem says, coming towards them from the forge, chin jerking towards the opposite side of the path, “Think she heard you talking about her?”

Bull turns, jerking his head – Skinner leaves and Krem goes to take his normal position by the gates, nodding at her as she passes.

Lavellan meanders her way towards him, blinking up at him before edging towards the wooden fence and reaching over for the hart. The mount moves to push his nose against her hand as she whispers something to him. The mount watches her with his large, liquid eyes before snorting in her face.

Bull waits.

Lavellan comes to stand in front of him – close, very close. If she weren’t the way she was, he’d think of something else. But no, this is just her.

“May I ask you some questions? I know that sometimes my questions can be very odd and sometimes people don’t like it, but I really don’t mean to be offensive, though I suppose that doesn’t count for much because it doesn’t matter what I mean if people still get hurt.”

Bull blinks, “Yeah, go ahead, shoot.”

He waits, wonders if she’s going to ask about the Qun or freedom or stuff like that, and which bit first.

She takes a deep breath and her words spill out of her like a stream.

“Everywhere I go people keep asking me if I’m warm enough even though I am and they keep telling me to put on coats and scarves and gloves and handing me boots and things like that even though I feel fine, so I was wondering if anyone has told you to put on a shirt, because you look like you should be cold but I don’t think so because you aren’t even shivering, also, how would you put on a shirt, would it get stuck, do they not wear shirts wherever you come from?”

Bull blinks again.

“You’re going to have to slow down a bit there, in the future. But yeah. No, no one’s told me to put on a shirt. Except Krem over there.” Bull jerks his thumb in Krem’s direction. “It’s pretty hot where I come from. Par Vollen. I get cold, yeah, but it’s not too bad. Qunari have thick skin.”

“What’s a Qunari?”

“I’m a Qunari.”

Lavellan squints. “Are all Qunari as tall as you are?”

“Pretty much. The women are bigger, though.”

Lavellan’s eyes go wide. “Wow.”

Bull laughs, “I know, right?”

“How do you get through _doors_?”

“Carefully. Tilt the head sideways a little.” Bull says, laughing as she leans, looking around him as if trying to imagine it.

“Does your neck ever get tired?”

“Nah, I’m used to my horns.”

“Does everyone have horns in Par Vollen?”

“The adults, yeah. Kids grow into them. It’d be a pain in the ass if we were born with them, you know?”

Lavellan shudders, then pauses, tilts her head. “Are there dwarves in Par Vollen? What about elves? Shemlen? Are there halla in Par Vollen?”

“Some, yeah. But they come from here.” Bull replies, “They move from here to there.”

“Oh.” Lavellan rocks on her heels. “Do they wear shirts?”

“Yeah.” Bull replies, smiling. These are honestly not the questions he usually gets. It’s refreshing. Surprising.

“What do they eat?” She continues, “What kind of fish are there? What about plants? Are there bears in Par Vollen? Cassandra keeps getting chased by bears whenever we go to the Hinterlands. Bears aren’t that aggressive in the Free Marches. Are they in Par Vollen? Is Krem from Par Vollen, too? The Iron Bull how did you get that name, is that how all people are named? It sounds very fancy.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t explain the giant bruise on her cheek or the cut on her lip that look like she got into a brawl.

Lavellan has to stand on an upturned bucket to reach Bull shoulder’s well enough to clean the slowly oozing wound – he could sit or lie down, but the angle is awkward when he sits and she’d have to sit on his back – which has its own share of injuries – to properly get at the cut.

“I don’t know how you’re still standing.” She says, squinting at Bull’s skin.

“Pure stubbornness.” Dorian says, hand on Lavellan’s waist as he gets ready to trade places with her to apply the poultices. “You get a good look at it?”

“Yes. I think I understand what you mean, now.” She says, hopping down and taking the bowl of poultices from Dorian so he can have both hands free to apply the medicine. “So _that’s_ why you said no rashvine, even though it’s numbing. You know, Dorian, you’re very good at this medicine thing.”

Dorian hums as he dabs at the area around the wound, “One must know how to heal to break and all that. You learn a startling amount of medicine in the study of necromancy.”

“Tickles.” Bull mumbles as Dorian starts to gently push the skin together, dabbing on the poultice as he goes. “You gonna take much longer back there?”

“It’ll take as long as it takes.” Dorian says, “How you even get a cut back here I don’t even know. Who would even be able to reach?”

“Maybe you should start wearing shirts.” Lavellan says.

“Nah. Scars add character.” Bull says, slowly reaching over to ruffle her hair. “And you don’t want cloth in cuts. Just asking for an infection.”

“This will not scar.” Dorian says, “And what character is there to add onto?” Lavellan pokes his side – gently so he doesn’t fall. “Alright, alright, playing nice. No need to look at me like that.”

-

“Maker’s breath – what happened?” Cullen gapes, moving around his desk to inspect the Inquisitor’s face. She winces as he gently touches the edges of the bruise on her cheek. “I thought – you just went to Val Royeaux for.” Cullen grasps at what he remembers – he knows that Josephine and Lavellan went out with Dorian and a few others to do something. Shop or sight-see, just relax in general.

It doesn’t explain the giant bruise on her cheek or the cut on her lip that look like she got into a brawl.

Cullen can’t picture a brawl happening in the middle of the city.

“The cakes were very good.” Lavellan says, “We brought some back for the others.”

Cullen wonders if he has to start assigning a constant guard to the Inquisitor – resources be damned. He’s certain that at this point they have enough man power for that. Even if it might drive them crazy chasing her over cliffs and waterfalls.

“Who – _why_?”

“Something, something, someone’s honor got insulted.” Lavellan says, “I don’t really understand it, myself. But I think I won. I used that move Skinner taught me!”

Skinner has taught her a lot moves and most of them are lethal, if not crippling.

Cullen is certain that this is a case where he needs to see the other guy, as it were.

He sighs, hands falling to his sides as she goes to shuffle papers around on his desk. Not to make it more organized – organization is something that doesn’t really happen to him so much as it happens by sheer accident – but just to make things look nicer. He watches as she puts a pile of ink wells together into a little pyramid and balances a rock from her pocket on top, making a pleased sound at the result.

“Should I ask which one?” Cullen adds one of the river stones Cole keeps putting into his pockets when he isn’t looking onto a pile of acorns and wooden bobbins that Lavellan has taken to leaving on the corners of his desk. She makes a happy sound, plucking the stone up and tilting it before putting it back down. He can’t tell the difference between the way it was before and the way it is now, but she looks particularly fond of this arrangement. “Anything I should be worried about?”

“Josephine says she’ll take care of it, and Leliana will handle the rest. They say it’ll all be fine by next week, if not better.” Lavellan replies, “And that I did very well and you’d be proud of the way I got past his guard.”

“Undoubtedly.” Cullen sighs, “Was there – was there something you needed when you came in?”

She probably did not come in here to nearly give him a heart attack over – well. Her general ability to get into trouble by breathing.

“Oh, right.” Lavellan blinks, looking up from where she’s balancing a sovereign on its side on top of an acorn. “Congratulations, you now have an entire squadron of chevaliers flying the Inquisition banner. Also, tea and cakes at Josephine’s office at half-mark past fourth bell.”

-

Dorian wakes up to feel someone sliding into bed next to him, a forehead pressing to his back between his shoulders and small hands tugging at the back of his shirt.

“Dorian.” Lavellan whispers, “Are you awake?”

“I am _now_.” Dorian mumbles, pressing his face into his thin pillow. Maker it’s freezing. “Why are _you_ awake?”

Lavellan just tucks herself against his side and he is fairly certain that once upon a time he would have firmly kicked her out and told her _no_ , but here they are breaking boundaries like there’s no tomorrow. Considering the giant green hole in the sky and the ancient Tevinter magister who’s out for their heads, there might not be. So.

“The stars are pretty.” She says, tugging at him, “Come look with me.”

Dorian groans and rolls onto his stomach. “Must we do this?”

“Dorian, come on.” She tugs.

“Why don’t you ever wake anyone else up?”

“Because hahren is already awake, Cullen never sleeps, everyone’s told me never to go into Bull’s room when he has a red ribbon on the door, and Cole will be there when I’m there.” She replies. “Come on, Dorian. The stars!”

“This would be romantic if we were in a romance. Ever tell Varric that? He could use this for one of his books. The terrible ones Cassandra likes.”

“You only know how terrible they are because you’ve read them all. Cassandra won’t even let me _look_ at them.” Lavellan squirms, sitting up and bouncing a bit. “Dorian, the night is wasting away!”

“So is my sleep!” Dorian sighs, throwing back the covers and leaning over to grab is coat. “Kaffas, woman, if I have bags under my eyes you’ll pay for this. These damn stars better be worth it.”

“Of course they’re worth it.” Lavellan snorts. “They’re _stars_. Who doesn’t like stars?”

“Me.”

“That’s a lie, you like stars.”

“Not at obscene hours of the morning in a frozen mountaintop fortress.” Dorian stomps into his boots, “This is revenge for all those times I took you wine tasting isn’t it? And those times where I made you wear high heeled shoes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dorian. I’m just adding to your cultural experience.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Blueberry, elfroot, warmth, touch of honey." Cole mumbles, "Warm clay formed and forming, wet and wetted, I hope this is it. No. I'm sorry. Better than two days ago, worse than yesterday's."

"Are you sulking, dear?" Vivienne says, looking the Inquisitor over at dinner. The Inquisitor is picking at her food, her splinted arm cradled close to her chest.  
  
Lavellan freezes, like a deer, looking up - wide eyes flicking up and down again before she hunches her shoulders.  
  
"No?"  
  
"Was that a question?"  
  
Lavellan clears her throat, straightens up a little. "Um. No. I am not sulking."  
  
"Good, it would be a shame to sulk over a minor injury." Vivienne says, "The break wasn't _that_ awful, darling, and it only has to be in a sling for a little while. You should be quite happy that's all you got away with. You were thrown rather had by that demon."  
  
"I know." Lavellan looks back down at her picked at dinner. She sighs. "I was hoping we'd get to the dragon."  
  
Varric raises an eyebrow. "Normally you hate fighting dragons - like every other _sane_ person out there."  
  
"I _do_." She droops a little more, one-handedly ripping her bread to little pieces. "But now that my arm is broken, I can't fight them."  
  
"Oh, you'll be fighting things you really ought not to be fighting in no time." Dorian mutters, pouring Cullen more wine. "That's just the nature of the beast."  
  
"Why are you so upset about not fighting dragons? Isn't that a good thing?" Cullen asks, eyes fixed on the Inquisitor's mostly full plate, brows drawn downward in concern.  
  
"Because I have to defeat ten high dragons by the end of the year. And the end of the year is three months away and I've only fought five." She moans, dropping the bread back onto her plate to rest her head on her hand. "That is _five more dragons_ to fight."  
  
"Why do you need to defeat ten high dragons by the end of the year?"  
  
"Because if I don't then that means Bull wins the bet and I have to tell him the story about that one boy from when I was _fourteen_." She groans, letting her head thump on the table. "I hate that story and I wish that I never made that bet, but at the time it seemed dooable, I already defeated three! And I ran into them all by _accident_!"  
  
Varric has to admit that for a while there, it kind of felt like she was tripping over dragons wherever she went. Hard to believe the damn things were supposed to be rare.  
  
"I even stabbed one in the eye." She mourns.  
  
Varric remembers that one. He was in Curly's office when the Commander got the report. The man took it and skimmed it while still talking, paused, went pale, swore - "Andraste's flaming _sword_. " - and re-read the thing. Varric swears he's never seen the man look so damn _proud_. If he didn't look like he'd expire of terror at the same time. Interesting combination of expressions there. He's pretty sure that was the face that father's and older brothers have when confronted with their kid or younger sibling's accidents of accomplishment.  
  
The Commander had read the report, then wordlessly handed it over to him. Varric read it, eyebrows raising because -  
  
Well. All that practice scaling mountains and cliffs and sheer rock faces must've paid off for her, because the Inquisitor climbed the dragon - nimble as a goat - somehow got all the way to the thing's head, and stabbed it in the eye with the end of her staff.  
  
Varric's got to admit that even he was a _little_ bit proud of that.  
  
Sparkler, wasn't, though. The minute they got back to Skyhold, he'd stomped off for a drink - "Lavellan, I love you, but if I see your face within the next six hours I am going to pitch you over the side of the battlements, just watch me do it. Sweet Andraste - stabbing a dragon in the _eye_ of all things."  
  
A glance at Curly's face tells him that the guy is remembering it right now - the corner of his mouth slightly turned up as he rubs his temples.  
  
Lavellan sighs. "I shouldn't have made that bet."  
  
"No, you really shouldn't have." Leliana agrees, "Though I am interested to hear about this story."  
  
-  
  
"Hahren." Her hands hit on the desk, "Come outside with me."  
  
Solas blinks, holding a finger up as he finishes taking notes on the text he's borrowing from Dorian. "A moment."  
  
Lavellan sighs, but waits. Solas finishes, closing the book and tossing it up in the air with a light spell to send it drifting towards Dorian.  
  
"You were saying?"  
  
"Come outside." She says, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. "You're always cooped up in here,  you need the sunlight."  
  
"Is that so?" Solas raises an eyebrow as she comes around the desk to tug at his sleeve.  
  
"Come on, hahren. Outside! Sunshine! Fresh _air_!"  
  
Solas is completely certain that if he does not acquiesce she will stay here and do this until supper comes, and then she will be sullen. He wonders if all da'len are this way to their teachers, and perhaps this is why he never really had a student before. Or perhaps this is just _her_ \- as most things tend to be.  
  
"Very well." He says, slowly standing, feeling his spine crack a little. "Lead the way."  
  
She leads him to a sunny corner of Skyhold's garden, where a tea set with two cups is waiting. Solas raises an eyebrow as she pours out one cup and sits on the ground. Solas joins her.  
  
"You are aware that I dislike tea." He says, hands folded in his lap.  
  
"Yes. It's not for you." Lavellan replies, "It's for Cole."  
  
"Cole?"  
  
"I am Cole." The spirit appears, crouching next to her. "I am sorry I'm late."  
  
"It's alright." Lavellan quickly pours another cup of tea, chilling it a little before handing it to Cole. Solas watches as the spirit hesitantly brings it to his face, smells it, and takes a sip.  
  
" _Blegh_." Cole wrinkles his nose, making a face. Solas' lips twitch upwards. Lavellan sighs.  
  
"Better or worse than last time?"  
  
"Blueberry, elfroot, warmth, touch of honey." Cole mumbles, "Warm clay formed and forming, wet and wetted, I hope this is it. _No_. I'm sorry. Better than two days ago, worse than yesterday's."  
  
"Alright." Lavellan sighs, turning to Solas, "I am attempting to figure out what Cole likes. It's difficult. He's _picky_. Like _you._  I think you're a terrible influence on his tastes, by the way. You're going to give him a prejudice against good things. But I think this is nice. Bonding. Hahrens and da'lens. Right?"  
  
Cole continues to hold the cup. "It smells nice. I like the steam."  
  
Lavellan plucks Cole's hat off his head and puts it on hers. "Cole, I have no idea how you see anything. Between your hair and this hat I think I would walk into things all the time."  
  
Cole tilts his head. "How could I walk into things when everything is telling me they're there?"  
  
It is a relief to see that Cole is unchanged, Solas thinks, reaching over to adjust the wide-brimmed hat on Lavellan's head. And he is glad that these two get along. That they are close. They will need each other when -  
  
They will need each other.  
  
-  
  
"You're shitting me." Sera says.  
  
"No." Lavellan replies. "Why would I?"  
  
"Because I swear that I just thought I heard you ask me to help you spike your advisor's wine."  
  
"They need to relax." Lavellan protests, holding up a bottle. "And while they're at it, I think they really ought to get off my back a _wee_ bit. I mean. I was only unconscious for two days - "  
  
"Two days dead to the world, a week of fevered hallucinations, and half a month o'bed rest." Sera corrects. "Not that I was keepin' track or anythin'."  
  
Lavellan winces at the look Sera shoots her way.  
  
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to get so sick. It just _happened_."  
  
"You scared everyone. You scared me." Sera says. "For all we know, your fancy pants advisors are right to keep you under lock an' key. Can't have the Herald of Andraste kicking the bucket before she's supposed to Herald in her miracle."  
  
"Yes, well. Fine. Maybe. But I think they could use a break before their faces get stuck that way and every time I turn around there's someone there watching me and I am getting a tad bit uncomfortable with it." Lavellan says. "Now, are you going to help me or not?"  
  
"I never said I _wouldn't_." Sera replies, squinting at the bottle in Lavellan's hand. "Should I ask what we're spikin' them with, though?"  
  
"Maybe. _Probably_." Lavellan says, "But don't?"  
  
Sera hums. "Well. I guess you've never asked that many questions. Alright. I'm in. We should start with the spymaster - the longer we wait on her, the more chances she has to catch us, yeah?"  
  
-  
  
Cullen wakes up to eyes staring at him and it says something about his life that he isn't startled or otherwise alarmed.  
  
"Inquisitor." He sighs as she blinks her large eyes at him. "It's early."  
  
"Cullen. Puppies." She whispers, and Cullen notices that there are, indeed, puppies, deposited on his bed. "Cole said puppies. So I came and they're so teeny, they have teeny feet. Why are they here?"  
  
Well, they certainly weren't here when he went to sleep.  
  
"I don't know." Cullen sighs, rolling onto his back and running his hands over his face and through his hair. He stretches, feels his joints pop, his back cracking. He settles, squinting at the hole in his roof. Not _too_ early, he'd be getting up soon, anyway.  
  
He thinks that he really should be more disturbed - and perhaps, disapproving - of the fact that the Inquisitor has the unfortunate habit of popping into people's private quarters at odd hours, usually when said people are not properly dressed. He thinks that even a year ago he would be a little mortified if the Herald of Andraste came into his rooms while he slept and watched him -or, the puppies that Cole most likely left on his bed, anyway. But no. He isn't. Either this has happened enough times that he no longer cares, or it's just her in general.  
  
"Your worship, could you please ask Cole to stop leaving small animals in my quarters without asking me first? They could fall and get injured." Cullen says, throwing an arm over his eyes as he feels the pups squirming against his side. She coos at them.  
  
"But they wouldn't." They both startle when Cole's voice sounds. Cullen blearily glances over to see Cole crouching next to Lavellan, hand on her shoulder as she holds a hand to her heart.  
  
" _Creators_ , Cole. Warning would be nice." She says.  
  
"Sorry." Cole says, "They wouldn't fall because you're here. I wouldn't leave them if I didn't think they were safe."  
  
"Ah." Cullen sighs. "At any rate - could you please stop leaving them here?"  
  
"Why? It gives you an excuse to talk about things that aren't war." Cole blinks. "You need more of that. The mother likes you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The mother of the puppies likes you." Cole repeats.  
  
Lavellan is focused on gently touching puppies on the nose and playing with their little paws, so he can't look to her for a translation of - whatever the spirit-boy says. Cullen sighs.  
  
"Thank you, Cole."  
  
"Don't thank me, thank your horse." Cole replies. "She does not like it  when you are sad. You should visit her more."


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you aware," Dorian says, falling into step next to her as she makes her way down to the lower courtyard, "That they are selling little figurines of you along with the Hero of Ferelden and Hawke the Champion ones? They don't quite do you justice, I must say. They've got your nose all wrong."

"Look, could I get you a ladder so you could get off my back?"  
  
Leliana nearly drops her reports as she freezes, head whipping around - the voice isn't the same. Or the accent. But the words, the way it's said - the  _tone_ -  
  
It's a kick in the chest and Leliana's mind snaps to a little village called Lothering and a woman in Circle mage robes with sharp elven ears and a sharper tongue. A simpler time. A _better_ time. Far away from here and now, but so close to her and who she is and always wishes she could  _be_.  
  
She looks over the edge of the railing and catches a glimpse of Dorian and the Herald in one of their rare spats, Lavellan's face is blotchy-pink from all the way up here as she stomps down the stairs, leaving Dorian to retreat - fuming and tense - to his alcove.  
  
Maker, they're so young.  
  
_They_ were so young.  
  
She remembers her friend and Morrigan bickering, always bickering - though they loved each other. She remembers all of them bickering, playful and not. Arguing and pulling at each other because it was hard not to. Alistair and Morrigan - daily - at each other's throats, Morrigan at everyone's throat really. Even  _hers_ at times.  _She_ gave as good as _she_ got, though.  
  
That line -  
  
Leliana breathes out.  
  
Lavellan is nothing like her. Nothing at all - aside from the magic and the elven blood. Lavellan is soft and young, naive and curious. A woman of the Dalish, a child to the rest of Thedas.  
  
Even as a prisoner of her Circle, even if it was  _her_  first time out in the world -  _she_ was never that soft. She thinks, sometimes that if the Herald and Hero met, well - the Herald might get chewed up and run roughshod by the sheer force of the Hero's personality.  _She_ had amazing charm and guile when she wanted to. _She_ could twist people into knots and make them think that they were tapestries.  
  
She would have made an excellent bard.  
  
Leliana rests shaking hands on the table and reaches towards the box where she keeps the letters. Zevran, Alistair, Wynne, Oghren, even one from Sten - now Arishok - and the Hero.  
  
"I hope you're safe." Leliana whispers, running her thumb over the edge of the box. "Andraste watch over you, my friend. You've done enough already."  
  
-  
  
"Does  _everyone_ know the Hero of Ferelden?" Lavellan asks, throwing her arms up. "Leliana knows the Hero. Morrigan knows the Hero. Varric's friend Merrill knows the Hero. Anders knew the Hero. Hawke met the Hero in slight passing. The stable master met the Hero. Sera got a toy box from the Hero. And now you know her too?  _Really_?"  
  
Cullen coughs into his fist. "Ah. Well. She was a Circle mage. I haven't exactly kept in contact. It is most likely she doesn't even remember me. We did not exactly part on amiable terms. I am sure that I was just another templar to her."  
  
Leliana trills a laugh and Lavellan's head whips towards her. Cullen feels his ears grow hot.  
  
"Oh, she remembers you. Very fondly. Her last letter was asking after you." Leliana says, eyes bright as she folds her hands behind her back. "I told her you grew into your ears, finally. And your hair really is that much better than it was then."  
  
"Maker." Cullen groans. " _Why_?"  
  
Leliana's eyes glitter as she turns to the Herald. "Young love."  
  
The Herald gasps, bouncing a little as she looks between Leliana and Cullen - she looks like it's Satunalia, her birthday, and while they are at it, New Years, all in one.  
  
"No! Creators - truly?"  
  
Cullen's face grows pinched. "It this  _relevant_?"  
  
"I assure you she was very smitten over you at the time. You shaped her life." Leliana says. "She was very impressionable at that age."  
  
"Could we talk about something else?  _Anything_ else?"  
  
"Would you like to talk about how I should reply to the messages sent from Halamshiral about your lineage?" Josephine says, feathered quill pressed to her lip to hide her smile.  
  
Cullen groans, hand over his face as he walks away from the war table. "Maker save me."  
  
-  
  
"Bull."  
  
"Yeah, Boss?"  
  
"I had a thought."  
  
Bull turns to her and she twists around to face him, eyes narrowed in contemplation as she nudges his thigh with her toes.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"Everyone calls Blackwall a bear because he's hairy, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"So what would they call him if he shaved his beard?" She tilts her head. "And what if Josephine stopped wearing the kind of clothes she's wearing? Sera wouldn't be able to call her frilly-pants and Varric couldn't call her Ruffles."  
  
Bull hums, "Well. It's the spirit of the thing that counts. Like how you're not actually a poppy flower but that's what Varric calls you, anyway."  
  
"Just like how you're not actually small?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Lavellan hums, frowning at her toes.  
  
"Well, if Cullen grew a beard, would people start calling him a bear, too?"  
  
Bull snorts. "Lion, maybe."  
  
"If Solas grew hair what would they call him?"  
  
"An entirely new person?"  
  
Lavellan snorts, nose wrinkling as she smiles.  
  
"Bull?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Do Qunari grow beards like Blackwall's? How come Varric doesn't have a beard? I thought dwarves were known for their beards." Her head tilts to the side, "Will Cole get a beard?"  
  
Bull hums. "Well. Most Qunari don't grow beards. Most of us shave'm. Keep them short. Varric's weird. You should ask him about it. I think he does it because he doesn't like dwarven tradition. Kind of like how Sera doesn't like elven tradition. But not as hostile. Grew up on the surface. And no. I don't know, boss. Could go either way with him. I'm not teaching him about it, at any rate. Leave that to the experts."  
  
-  
  
"Are you aware," Dorian says, falling into step next to her as she makes her way down to the lower courtyard, "That they are selling little figurines of you along with the Hero of Ferelden and Hawke the Champion ones? They don't quite do you justice, I must say. They've got your nose all wrong."  
  
Lavellan touches her nose, "I'm surprised it wasn't the ears they changed."  
  
"Oh no, your ears are kept in perfect replica. The Hero of Ferelden was an elf too, I am completely certain they are exaggerating her hips." Dorian replies. " _Very_ shapely."  
  
Lavellan snickers.  
  
"But why? Shouldn't they save that for - I suppose when the Breach is actually sealed?"  
  
"Ah, but why wait when they can capitalize now? They'll only get more popular as time goes on. And then they'll start making limited editions. The Herald in her Orlesian dress garb. The Herald in her disgustingly plain and brown tunic. The Herald in her - scandalous - night wear. The Herald in her smalls. The Herald in - "  
  
"I think I get it." Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "Is there nothing better for them to do?"  
  
"You should see the ones they have of the Warden." Dorian says as she tucks her arm into his, going down the stairs. "Very,  _very_  risque. From what I understand, the Warden-Commander collects them to laugh at. A little line of them in her office. Unless Leliana is lying about that. Either way it'shilarious. In any event, you realize that if you do pull this thing off, they're going to start making figures of everyone else? I mean - your advisors and your noble assistants, such as myself, are very visible.  Considering that you've dragged us from one side of Thedas near clear across to the other."  
  
"Worried they'll get your nose wrong?"  
  
"Hardly. I doubt they'll make one of the Vint Necromancer who helped manipulate time for you. At least, not until much later when I've drastically improved Thedas' opinion on Tevinter." Dorian rolls his eyes, whispers in a faux-conspirator voice. "Those  _Orlesians_ and their _prejudices_. No. I'm concerned about what's going to happen when they release figures of our poor Commander. The man's already been besieged by any number of letters. Could you imagine it? A figure of our noble Commander in formal wear? One in casual wear? Perhaps one of just him in his smalls? The man is going to melt into the ground and then you'll have a puddle of stammering, feathered, blonde to lead your army."  
  
"They don't even know what he looks like in his smalls." Lavellan says. "Most of us don't even know what he looks like without the pauldrons. I mean - I know it comes off. I asked him and everything. I'm fairly certain he sleeps in that, sometimes."  
  
"Could you blame the man? There's a hole in his bloody roof. Those pauldrons look warm at least. And that's what the imagination is for. Delightful thing, that imagination. Can make any number of especially delicious images. And I promise you that half of Orlais is imagining him in some form of dress. Or not dress. And when they figure out how to turn that into a statue? It's going to happen and I am going to buy twelve of them to give to each and everyone one of us. It's going to be _delightful_."


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that's all Lavellan needs to go shooting over there, practically flinging her upper body over the fence to stretch out her hand and croon, "Hello, lovely."

"Why can't you bother Blackwall?" Dorian sighs, "He likes being outdoors. Among the grass. And hay. And dung."  
  
"Because Blackwall is writing to his Lady Love." Lavellan says, bright spots of color on her cheeks as she leans over the stall wall to click her tongue at the dracolisk. "And you owe me. You said you were sorry for the fight and you wanted to make it up to me. _Anything_ I wanted, you said."  
  
"I thought you'd want something like - I don't know, help getting out of a dance lesson or finding some obscure text in the arse-end of Thedas. Not mucking out stalls and rolling about in hay." Dorian wrinkles his nose as he stops in the middle of giving Cullen's courser a brush-down. "Now that I think on it, I don't know why I thought that. I should have known you'd have us doing something absolutely absurd."  
  
"It's bonding with our mounts. It's a good thing." Lavellan says, her hart gripping the back of her tunic with his teeth - neck stretched out as far as he can get it, almost climbing over the stall wall - in an attempt to pull her away from the dracolisk. "When was the last time _you_ thanked your Andalusian for carrying you?"  
  
"Every time I get on the thing and he doesn't throw me to the winds." Dorian is fairly sure that the stable master gave him the most stubborn and dour looking horse out of _spite_. It hasn't thrown him _yet_ , but _oh_ , he's certain its been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do so. "His lover, you said?"  
  
"No. Not his lover. His _Lady Love_." Lavellan says, emphasizing the two words, turning to wrinkle her nose at him. The hart takes the opportunity to give her a solid yank and tug her back to safety. The dracolisk's teeth snap where her hand was. Dorian swears that the two mounts have declared silent warfare over the Inquisitor. Ridiculous.  
  
Giant deer, dracolisks, puppies, kittens, a few of Leliana's more taciturn ravens, what next? Nugs? Fennecs? Druffalo? _Absurd_ , really. This is where his affections lie. He swears he used to have class or something like it. Now he just has her.  
  
Not a _terrible_ trade off, mind.  
  
"The difference _is_?"  
  
"Varric explained it to me." She says, clapping her hands - seemingly oblivious to the fact that her hart has turned to try and climb into the dracolisk's stall to throttle the thing. In turn the dracolisk looks ready to spit acid, or possibly cut its losses and burn the entire stable down and take all of them out with it. "A lover is someone you have sex with. A Lady Love is an object of love and affection but not sex. Like - courting? But not courting? Varric explains it so much better. I think it's _romantic_. Don't you?"  
  
"I think our ideas of romance are different." Dorian says. "Why on earth the stable master put your hart next to that lizard I have no idea. It's a blood feud going on."  
  
Lavellan turns around, and of course - as soon a she starts turning the two assume their normal positions like they've been on perfect behavior this entire time.  
  
"I think they're _friends_." She says, "They get along so well."  
  
Dorian snorts, and when she turns back to him and pulls a carrot out of her pocket to give to the Halflinger Cassandra favors, the hart and dracolisk return to their attempts at mutual assassination. There's a metaphor in there, somewhere.  
  
A few stalls down the bog unicorn - what kind of _stupid_ name is that - whinnies for maggots.  
  
Dorian sighs.  
  
-  
  
"What is _that_?" Cullen asks, turning to Josephine as she narrows her eyes at the - the thing with a giant sword going through its skull get guided to the Haven's stables by couriers. "Don't tell me that was a gift."  
  
"It was a _discovery_." Josephine replies, "And better us than anyone else, yes?"  
  
"It's a dead horse with a sword through its _skull_." Cullen says, "Who in the world thought that bringing that here would be a good idea? Why not just - er. Finish the job?"  
  
Josephine raises an elegant eyebrow. "Who else do you think, Commander?"  
  
"Is it here?" Lavellan startles them both by popping up behind them, craning over Josephine's shoulder, Cullen can feel her hand tugging on the back of his cloak. "It is! It's _here_! Wow, that's a long sword. Cullen, what kind of sword is that? It's longer than _Bull's_."  
  
"An enchanted one, probably." Cullen replies - not that she's there to listen. She's dashed her way towards the stable. Cullen tries to call out to stop her - after all, they don't know how safe it is, what kind of temperament it has - but Bull gets to her before he does, deftly catching her by the back of her robes and gently raising her into the air.  
  
Josephine coughs out a laugh and Cullen sighs.  
  
The image is rather like a stray kitten getting caught by the scruff.  
  
Lavellan hangs in the air, and from this angle he can't see her face, but he knows without a doubt that she has that confused and affronted look on. The one where her eyes are wide and and her mouth is pursed and her nose is a little flared.  
  
"Give them a bit to check it over first, Boss." Cullen hears the qunari say as he and Josephine make their way towards them. "And give it time to settle in before you interrogate it about what kind of hay it likes."  
  
"I don't _interrogate_ people." She protests, landing lightly on her feet when Bull gently drops her. "I'm just _curious_."  
  
"I know." Bull says, "Where did you even find that thing?"  
  
Lavellan turns to Cullen - as if he'd know - and Cullen turns to Josephine.  
  
"A bog." She says.  
  
"A _bog_." Cullen repeats, incredulous. And here he thought nothing could top Kirkwall.  
  
"A bog." Lavellan nods, turning back to Bull. "We found it in a bog."  
  
Bull cocks his head. "Weird how it doesn't smell. I mean. It's gotta be rotten. And it's from a bog? Doesn't smell like it."  
  
Lavellan rocks on the back of her heels as she waits for the stable master to give the all clear. Cullen spares a moment to hope that the thing doesn't scare the other mounts. He can see the bright brown-red of Lavellan's hart past the blacksmith's, ambling around the sparse forest with the horses. Herded off while the stable master investigates this...undead creature.  
  
Dennet comes over just as Lavellan looks ready to burst out of her skin with questions - "I have no idea what in the Void that is, but it seems well enough." He says, "Disturbing as anything but gentle as a nug. Looks like it'd ride well. Good flanks. Steady. I don't know anything about magic, so I can't say if the thing is cursed or not. But as a mount it seems fine."  
  
And that's all Lavellan needs to go shooting over there, practically flinging her upper body over the fence to stretch out her hand and croon, "Hello, lovely."  
  
-  
  
"You are _shit_ at this game." Sera says, "You're supposed to tell us secret things. Secret _naughty_ things. I know you have some. You tell Bull about them."  
  
"Bull keeps secrets. He's a spy." Lavellan replies, frowning at the dice. "I don't like this game."  
  
"You don't like it because you haven't figured out how to cheat at it, yet." Varric replies. "Give it a few more rounds, Poppy."  
  
"You tell Krem and Dalish." Sera ticks off on her fingers, "And Grim. Alright, Grim I get - he don't talk much anyway. You tell Stitches. And Skinner. And Rocky. Josephine." Sera wiggles her fingers, "The demon."  
  
"Cole." Lavellan and Varric say at the same time, "His name is _Cole_."  
  
"Whatev." Sera says, still counting. "You tell Dorian."  
  
"I don't tell Dorian _everything_. That's just asking for bad things to happen." Lavellan nudges Sera's foot under the table. "Krem keeps secrets. Dalish and I have an understanding. Stitches is a good listener. Skinner doesn't care to repeat things. Rocky usually forgets because he's drunk. Josephine and I have a pact. And Cole is Cole."  
  
"Come on. _Secrets_."  
  
"I told you a secret already!"  
  
"That you've been hiding your fancy shoes in the wine cellar ain't a secret. Everyone knows you hide your fancy shoes. That's why they keep gettin' found. Half of Skyhold is on lookout to fetch them back and give them to Josephine or de Fer. A _real_ secret."  
  
"That _was_ a real secret! And I told you about the puppies, right?"  
  
Varric laughs, "Poppy, all of Skyhold knows about the puppies. The puppies were never a secret to start with."  
  
Lavellan frowns.  
  
"Come on. Give us a secret." Sera nudges. "I mean. I told you about the peaches, Varric's told us about the poop in the sewers. Dunno if it's real, though."  
  
"Would I make it up?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'm wounded."  
  
"Secret." Sera chants, " _Secret_ , secret, _secret_."  
  
"I enjoy setting things on fire when no one's looking?" Lavellan says, tilting her head to the side. "I don't think I've gotten caught yet. So does _that_ count as a secret?"  
  
Sera blinks. Varric's hands slip as he shuffles the deck, sending the cards sliding onto the table.  
  
"Balls." Sera blinks again. "What, really? You're not just foolin' me?"  
  
"Yes. I'm not good at fire magic like Dorian or Vivienne are." Lavellan replies. "But I can set small things on fire so sometimes I make little piles of dry leaves or some letters from nobles or other little things and I set them on fire and watch them burn. I don't think anyone knows. Well. I mean. Now you know because I told you. But does that count?"  
  
"I knew you were too good." Sera sighs, reaching over to squish Lavellan's cheeks between her palms. "You're my favorite big-pants."  
  
"But I don't have big pants."


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are all your names for elves flowers? Sera is Buttercup and Merrill is Daisy. I’m Poppy.”

“You are being stubborn.”

“There is a phrase I learned – it goes something like kettle meet pot.”

“Pot meet kettle.” Varric corrects.

“Pot meet kettle.” Lavellan repeats, scrambling up the rocks in another attempt to grab at the glittering shard just peering over the edge. “How did that even get up there?”

“Is it truly necessary to know?” Cassandra sighs. “We should just move on.”

“After I get the shard.”

“You will fall and break your neck.”

“Varric and Bull will catch me.” Lavellan says. “Won’t you?”

“I’ll try to, but I make no promises, Poppy.” Varric says.

“I got you, Boss.” Bull says peering up at her, “Nice view from down here. You been working out?”

“The sky _is_ very clear, isn’t it? And does it count as working out if you’re running for your life from giant, angry bears? I swear that the bears in the forests where I grew up weren’t this aggressive. They mostly left us alone. I mean, there was that one time with the baby landing on the halla on accident, but it was funny and I almost had a pet bear. I named her Da’dirtha. I _miss her_.” Lavellan says, stretching and smacking her hand at the stone. “I’m so _close_.”

Cassandra rubs at her temples with one hand, helmet tucked under her arm as she wipes sweat from her brow. “We are setting up camp after this.”

“But there was – “

“That was not a suggestion.” Cassandra cuts in. “The sun is almost setting and we have been running around all _day_.”

“Tired, Seeker?”

“Not as tired as your mouth must be.” Cassandra snorts, rolling her neck on her shoulders. Lavellan jumps, wobbling a little when she lands on the narrow outcropping.

The rock gives and she yelps, scrambling for purchase.

Bull holds out his arms and she lands in them with a soft _oof_.

“Nice catch.” She says, blinking at him.

Bull grins, tosses her up, lightly, “You’re definitely a catch. What do you think, Varric? I catch myself a good elf or what?”

“One of the best.” Varric agrees.

Lavellan isn’t looking at either of them, though, her eyes are trained on the glittering shard and she reaches up to curl her fingers as far as they will go around one of Bull’s horns.

“Bull? Do you think you could throw me high enough that I could get the shard?”

Bull hums. “Probably. But the Seeker would probably hamstring me first.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not getting hamstringed by the Seeker for you, if I can avoid it, Boss.” Bull tacks on. Just to make sure. Lavellan sighs.

“I wouldn’t have _asked_ you to. Alright, let’s go back to camp.”

-

A high pitched shriek tears through the hallway before the Inquisitor barrels out of her door -

“What – “ Varric blinks, but Lavellan is already out of the main hall and making a straight line towards the tavern.

Krem stands up when she slams the door open and dashes in, Bull standing up at alert after, Sera yelling “ _What’s goin’ on?”_ As Lavellan practically skids up the stairs and straight into Cole.

“ _Get rid of them!”_ She yelps, practically latching onto him.

Cole blinks at her with wide eyes, his own going a little glassy before his features settle into a determined line and he nods.

“Yes.” Cole says. “They should be gone. They shouldn’t have been there in the first place. It isn’t your fault, though.”

Then he’s gone and Lavellan stands there shaking, sucking in deep breaths as the others come running up the stairs.

“What happened?” Bull says, taking her by the shoulders and looking her over. Not hurt. Scared. Startled. Why?

Lavellan sucks in deep gulps of air as she catches her breath from her mad dash – thudding of feet up the stairs as Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian come follow.

Dorian pushes his way to her side, “What in the world has happened? Are you alright?”

Lavellan turns from Bull to Dorian then back to Bull then back to Dorian again - “Someone left things on my bed and I don’t know how they got there also _there was a dead goat rotting on my balcony!_ It was _buzzing_. With _flies_.”

She shivers. “And it was _staring at me_.”

Then she bursts into a long stream of chatter, words blurring together and into each other as she raises her hands – fingers flashing with small sparks of lightning as she gestures -

Cole reappears next to her - “They are gone now. Far away from here.”

“Ma serannas, Cole.” Lavellan says, letting out a loud breath. “Creators, that was terrifying.”

“Someone left a _goat_ on your _balcony_?” Dorian says, sorting through her rush of words, “What?”

“Ah.” Cassandra blinks. “I think – Josephine has not had a chance to tell you just yet.” She says, “An Avaar man was caught attacking Skyhold with goats while we were away.”

“ _Why_? What did the goats ever do to him?” Lavellan demands, leaning around Bull to look at her. “That’s mean to the goats!”

“How did he even get the goat up there?” Bull asks.

“Catapults.” Cassandra says, “I don’t know. I wasn’t _here_. He’s in the dungeons waiting judgement. No one goes into your rooms while you’re away so the goat must have – _lingered_.”

“Exactly how long ago was this?” Sera asks.

“Almost a month ago.”

Everyone grimaces.

“The _smell_.” Lavellan groans. “And its _eye_.”

“You.” Bull says, “Need a drink.”

“Fortunately we are in a tavern.” Dorian takes her hand in his, running a thumb over her knuckles. “You can stay in my room while yours airs out.”

-

“She’s made her way through half a loaf of bread, two bowls of stew, three cups of water, four rashers, and an entire plate of eggs.” Dorian says, “What, have you been _starving the poor girl_?”

Cassandra shoots him a dirty look as she sits down, roughly shoving him over a little. “Food was not exactly plentiful in variety or especially appetizing in the _Hissing Wastes_.”

“Haven’t you all sorted out whatever it is you have to do there, yet?”

“There’s a dragon.” Cassandra says, taking an aggressive bite of her own dinner. “And she wants to bait it.”

“Andraste preserve me.” Dorian sighs. “Does she actually find near-death experience _fun_?”

“No. This time it’s for _study_.” Cassandra spits out the word, lips curling up as she glares in the general area of the Chargers. “She found a scholar in the dessert. She made friends.”

“That sounds like her.”

“And now she’s helping him bait the thing to study its hunting pattern.” Cassandra groans, “We have about a month until she’s ready. She’s going to bring you, you know.”

“Of course.” Dorian puts his head in his hands. “Of course. Why doesn’t she ever bring Vivienne or Solas?”

“Solas burns. Vivienne told her that there will be repercussions if she’s ever brought back to the Wastes unnecessarily. And you are the one who told her that you want to be with her when she gets into dangerous things.”

“I regret that. I truly do.”

Cassandra hums.

“She’s going to explode.” Dorian sighs as he watches Lavellan practically inhale food across the room. “I didn’t know she had the room.”

-

“Varric?”

“Yes, Poppy?”

“Why are all your names for elves flowers? Sera is Buttercup and Merrill is Daisy. I’m  Poppy.”

“It seems to fit.” Varric replies. “It’s a motif.”

Lavellan hums, “But you call Solas Chuckles. That’s not a flower. How come Solas doesn’t get a flower name, too?”

Varric turns to glance at the older elf behind them.

“Guess I just couldn’t think of one. How about – rash vine?”

Solas closes his eyes and sighs. Blackwall snorts from up ahead.

Lavellan hums. “I don’t know.  Hahren doesn’t _seem_ like the rash vine type.”

“Spindleweed?”

“How about referring to me by name?”

“But hahren, nicknames are a bonding experience.” Lavellan says, “Everyone says so.”

“Just because everyone says so does not mean it is true.” Solas replies, but Lavellan his already ticking plant names off on her fingers.

“I like Spindleweed. It’s so pretty. Oh, what about Embrium? Embrium flowers are so lovely. Lilies! Lilies are peaceful like hahren!”

“Sunflower because he’s a bucket of joy.” Blackwall throws hin from ahead, “Watch your step, my lady. The rocks are rather wet.”

“Thank you, Blackwall.” Lavellan says, taking his hand as he helps her over said rocks. “Sunflower is nice. They’re tall. Hahren is tall.”

“Nah. Just not seeing it.” Varric replies. “Oh. I know. _Elfroot_.”

“No.” Solas says as Blackwall snorts.

“That’s not very creative, Varric. I should think hahren’s more dignified than elfroot.” Lavellan frowns.

“Royal Elfroot, then.” Varric corrects, Lavellan looks down at him with delight. Solas cuts between them.

“No.”

“But – “

“No.”

“Aw, don’t be like that Royal Elfroot.” Varric prods, “Just having a bit of fun.”

“There are bandits ahead.” Solas says, “Perhaps you could have your fun at their expense instead of mine?”


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm starting to wish I was the brain-dead blonde templar everyone thinks I am." Cullen mumbles as he awkwardly stands between a five pointed star of Lavellan, Dorian, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana. "Yes. I have."

'You know, I think this is all very odd and novel." Lavellan says, perched on a crate, twisting and turning around like a particularly curious dog, or perhaps a strangely excited cat.  
  
"First time among humans?" Solas asks her, putting a hand on her knee to draw her back just as she's about to twist around to lean out the tavern window.  
  
"Yes. Is it that obvious?" She asks, turning back to him and Varric, who laughs. "Everything looks the _same_ , how do you not get lost?"  
  
"You could try string." Varric says, "I don't have any right now, but I'm sure someone has a ball of it somewhere."  
  
"Your food comes to you!" Lavellan says, eyes flickering from the waitress to the other tables to the bartender. "That's so _peculiar_. You don't have to make it or track it or stand in line or _anything_."  
  
"Only in taverns and eateries." Varric says.  
  
"It is one of the better things about city life." Solas cedes, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "Though there is something to be said of the satisfaction of stalking and killing your own supper."  
  
"Isn't there?" Lavellan turns to him, legs crossed as she rocks a little - energy and youth and brightness without impatience. She laughs, "And everything is so _crowded_! There are people everywhere. If there were this many people in one clan I think we'd all kill each other by morning."  
  
Solas coughs a laugh and Varric winks at her.  
  
"Ah, and that's why there's a tavern, kid. The secret to getting along is that if you get enough people drunk, by the next morning they'll be too busy with their hangovers to remember who and why they wanted to go on a killing spree. Doesn't always work, but it usually does the trick."  
  
"I've never drank shemlen - or dwarven - liquor before." She says, eyes bright - fidgeting - as the waitress places food down in front of them. She smiles wide at the waitress who smiles back. "Thank you."  
  
"You're very welcome, love." The woman says, bemused before turning to Varric. "You take care of this one right'proper. Hear? Don't want her turning out bad. This one's _nice_."  
  
Varric salutes, "Of course. I always take care of my friends, don't I?"  
  
Solas places a hand over Lavellan's mug - "Then a word of caution, Lavellan. Dalish liquor is not quite as - well. _Memorable_. Human and dwarven beers tend to - ah. Linger."  
  
"Better than the shit the qunari have." Varric snorts. "That doesn't _linger_ , it comes back for seconds, thirds, _and_ fourths."  
  
-  
  
"Someone has put little wooden signs on all the stall doors in the stables." Lavellan says, "Was that you?"  
  
Sera looks up from the nuts she's shelling. "Uh. No. Don't think so. Might've been pissed drunk if I did, but no. Pretty sure I didn't. Why? What's on the signs?"  
  
"Well." Lavellan sits across from Sera on the window cushion, hands moving to help Sera, "There's one on the bog unicorn's stall that says _I eat dead things and people's sick_."  
  
"Which is true and disgusting."  
  
"The one on my hart's stall says _I scream at everything._ Which isn't true at all. He doesn't scream. He trumpets. Big difference!"  
  
"Uh. _No_. Not really - but in the interest of hearing more, fine. Whatev. He doesn't. Go on."  
  
"There's one on the dracolisk's stall that says _Whenever no one is looking I like to drool acid onto things_. Is that true? No one's told me that dracolisks can make acid."  
  
"Because they were worried you'd try and check." Sera snorts. "But yeah. I heard about it, don't like it enough to go near and find out. What else?"  
  
"Cullen's courser has a sign that says _I like to nibble people's clothes when they aren't looking_." Sera snorts, "Cassandra's horse has a sign that says _I spit at people who don't give me carrots_."  
  
"Oh my god." Sera cackles. "This is hilarious. Because it's all _true_."  
  
"But who did it?"  
  
"Well, not me. Have you asked any of the Chargers?"  
  
"I was going to, but I wanted to check if it was you first."  
  
"Trust me, if it was me, I'd totally take credit for it. But it ain't, and I _wish_ it was. Damn good fun."  
  
-  
  
"Where is the Inquisitor? I've been looking for her - there's some reports I think she should see before the next meeting - and I haven't been able to find her at all." Cullen asks, "Have you seen her pass?"  
  
Varric shakes his head, "Nope. Been here all morning and all afternoon. Letters don't write themselves. And bills aren't very fond of waiting. _Shame_."  
  
Cullen frowns, glancing around the hall.  
  
"I did see Ruffles and the Seeker go up though." Varric says, "Didn't see them come down, if that helps."  
  
It does and does not.  
  
"Thank you, Varric." Cullen says hesitating between moving forward or retreating to his office, and wonders if he should pursue this. On one hand, he truly does need to show her these reports. On the other, he's never intruded upon the Inquisitor's quarters and it seems - strangely bold for him to do so now. Especially if she is with Josephine or Cassandra. He does not want to interrupt whatever business they have.  
  
"Ah, Commander. Just the man I was looking for." The door next to Varric swings open and Dorian glides through. Cullen wonders when, exactly, he became surrounded with so  many graceful people.  
  
Madame de Fer, Leliana, Josephine, Dorian, - the Inquisitor, even in her oddest and most _confusing_ moments of anatomy-defying twists is graceful.  
  
"Oh?" Dorian beckons him to follow, headed towards the Inquisitor's chambers. "Whatever for? We were at draw at our last game, I hope you're not going to gloat over a _draw_."  
  
"Draw? Hardly a draw, I just let you _think_ it was a draw." Dorian replies, "No. We, as in Josephine, Cassandra and Leliana - and now, apparently _myself_ -, have taken it upon ourselves to speed up our dear Inquisitor's dreadfully lacking education. At the moment we're going over the classics. And you're the classics kind of fellow. Don't think I don't know. I've actually _read_ the titles of the books on your shelves.  You romantic, you. And the heavy ones, too! There's a brain underneath that unruly blonde mess and it's perfect for picking."  
  
As always, Cullen is slightly swept up and around by Dorian's words, but he thinks that between Dorian and Lavellan and Varric - and the faint memory of Surana - he's getting used to getting torrents of words flung at him from every corner.  
  
"You're teaching her the classics? What for?" Cullen's eyebrows raise. "I hardly see how her knowing old tales is going to help her any. I don't even know how those books got onto my shelves. I mentioned enjoying reading as a boy _once_ to Leliana and the next week they appear in between my reference materials. Every time I try to move them back to the library, or give them to someone who could enjoy them better they end up on my bed."  
  
"That's because you need to _relax_. Looking so dour and worried all the time is going to ruin your face. Then where would we be?" Leliana's voice startles him - and Dorian, who swears under his breath - as she falls into step behind them. "And why _not_ learn the classics? There's meaning in them, and it would give her a firmer grasp on human cultures and languages."  
  
Cullen opens the door for Leliana and Dorian to step through, Dorian offers Leliana his arm as they pass.  
  
"Aren't we such a pretty picture?" Dorian says, "The golden knight in his shining armor, the handsome and dashing mage, and the ever so lovely songbird."  
  
Leliana laughs and Cullen sighs as he follows them up the stairs.  
  
He can hear muffled yelling from the other side of the second doorway, and exchanges a glance with Leliana and Dorian - both of whom don't seem especially worried, so Cullen supposes he shouldn't be, either.  
  
As he opens the door the yelling turns from loud sounds into words that take him a moment to put together.  
  
"It's a play about the fickleness of _youth_!" Lavellan yells, "It's _stupid_. He says he loves Rose but then the next page he's ready to elope with this Julia! That's ridiculous!"  
  
"No, because he did not truly love Rose! He loved the _idea_ of Rose!" Cassandra exclaims, sounding so very earnest and Cullen hears the rustling of pages and then Josephine's voice cuts in -  
  
"It's about love reconciling and ending wars. The power of love should not be questioned!"  
  
"Ah, still going on about this are we?" Dorian ascends the stairs and Cullen realizes that they are _actually_ arguing about what he _thinks_ they're arguing about.  
  
Before he can turn around and wash his hands of this altogether before he's drawn into it, Leliana's got her arm through his and is pulling him up the stairs with surprising strength.  
  
"Cullen." Cassandra rounds on him, and he winces because there's no way he's going to ever escape this. "You've read the classics."  
  
"I'm starting to wish I was the brain-dead blonde templar everyone thinks I am."  Cullen mumbles as he awkwardly stands between a five pointed star of Lavellan, Dorian, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana. "Yes. I have."  
  
There are books all over the floor and Lavellan is standing on her bed, hair wild - there are at last four bottles of wine and a tray half-empty with some cheese and slices of bread and meats on the floor. Cullen rubs the back of his neck and wonders how badly it would look if he just ran. He's certain he wouldn't get away, but it would be worth the try.  
  
"Your thoughts on this."  
  
"Ah. Well - I don't see how what I think is especially relevant to the - "  
  
"Cullen." Lavellan points at him, "As the Inquisitor I am ordering you to stay right there and tell me what you think of this _stupid_ shem romance."  
  
Cullen winces.  
  
"No, there is no way for you to get out of this clean." Dorian says, snagging a wine bottle by its neck, "Believe me, I've _tried_."  
  
"Well." Cullen is a grown man. Yet here he is, playing with his fingers and staring very hard at the foot of the Inquisitor's bed rather than look anyone in the face. "I always rather thought that it was one of his simpler plays and didn't put much thought into it beyond how much of a shame it was that they both died."


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think it sees us?” Lavellan asks just as Bull’s hand curls around the back of her neck – practically swallowing her shoulders.

“Do you think it sees us?” Lavellan asks just as Bull’s hand curls around the back of her neck – practically swallowing her shoulders.

“Boss. We’re gonna fight it, right? _Tell me we’re going to fight it_.”

Lavellan turns from Solas to Bull. And Bull just looks so _excited_. He’s smiling and his eye is sparkling and he’s already leaning a little towards it and -

She turns back to Solas. He raises an eyebrow at her. Clearly he isn’t going to be helping her in this and -

“Cassandra?” She twists around to where the woman is on the other side of Bull. “Thoughts?”

“It’s going to hurt.” Cassandra deadpans, mouth a hard slash as she sits with her back against a rock. “We have full supplies and getting rid of it now ensures we do not have to deal with it later.”

“ _Boss_.”

She turns to stare at the dragon. Thunder booms, and she winces, shifting her weight on her soaked feet. Creators, how does she even get into these kinds of messes?

“Cullen is going to be so mad.” She mourns. “Dorian’s going to yell at me, too.”

Dorian practically lectured her for _two whole hours_ last week when she got back from killing the Ferelden Frostback. She didn’t even _mean_ to fight that one. It just _happened_. They walked into its lair and what was she supposed to do then? Run and draw its attention to the rest of the Hinterlands?

And Cullen had quietly fretted over her before quietly drawing her aside and telling her that baiting high dragons may be a noble sport and that she might have had good intentions but to think it over very carefully because _high dragons are not creatures to be messed with and she is a very important person_ , something, something, she mostly tuned it out because if she actually listened she might expire of shame.

She is surrounded in people who are very good at making her feel bad about things she does. It’s like she never left her clan.

There are hahren _everywhere_.

And they all make that _face_ of disappointment. The one that makes her insides twist and the back of her neck feel hot and prickly and her palms damp. She wonders if _she’ll_ ever be the hahren giving out that look to some da’len.

If she survives this dragon, maybe?

“Okay.” She sighs. “It’s not like we can leave it here.”

Bull laughs, springing up in a move that makes Lavellan _wonder_ because he’s so large how does he move so quickly – and Cassandra sighs as she adjusts her shield.

“You’re the best, boss.” Bull says, swinging her up into his arms and giving her a rough kiss on the cheek before setting her down on her feet. She wobbles a little and Solas steadies her arm.

“I feel like I have made an awful decision.”

“That tends to happen when one is in a position of leadership.” Solas replies, picking a leaf out of her hair, sounding fond and mildly resigned. “Come, before it notices us. We can at least have some element of – “

Solas is cut off by the Bull’s war cry and the dragon’s loud bellow -

She winces.

“Well. He makes a good distraction, doesn’t he?” Solas recovers. “Let us find a place to cast. Preferably out of the range of – “

A blast of lightning. Lavellan’s hair stands on end.

Solas closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“The range of the lightning.”

Lavellan looks at her staff, which crackles a little. “I’m going to be useless.”

“You can still cast barriers.” Solas points out, taking her hand and Fade stepping them behind a bit of crumbling masonry. “That is something, I suppose.”

-

“Sera did it.” Lavellan points at Sera, who glares and flips her off before pointing at the mage who’s got his head folded in his arms and his fingers loosely curled around a half-empty wine glass.

“Dorian did it.” Dorian raises his head glaring at Sera before turning to Cullen.

“Lavellan did it.”

“Judging from this report, the three of you and Blackwall did it.” Cullen replies, raising his eyebrows at them. “Have you been drinking all afternoon?”

“ _No_.” Lavellan replies. “I had lunch _first_. Then Dorian said it was a good day to be drunk and Sera agreed and also you shouldn’t be mad because it wasn’t my fault.”

“You threw jars of bees at Venatori strongholds.” Cullen says, “Bees.”

“I told you Sera did it.”

“Shit.” Sera grabs the wine glass out of Dorian’s limp hand. “Yeah, well. Dorian’s the one who set them on _fire_. It would’ve been fine otherwise.”

“Excuse me, but your bees got in _my_ way. Who even _throws bees_? What kind of ridiculous – “ Dorian groans, “I’m not going to argue with you over this. It’s pointless arguing with you.”

Sera sticks out her tongue.

“Yeah, well. I may have thrown bees, but it was _her_ who dragged us around to try and poke at abandoned buildings.”

“Hunting Venatori is what we _do_.” Lavellan protests.

“An entire fortress set on fire by _a cloud of burning bees_.” Cullen says. “Burning _bees_.”

“Those poor bees.” Lavellan mourns, looking down into her mug. “I feel so sorry for them.”

Cullen is entirely sure that they are missing the point -

“The bees? The bees? What about _us_?” Dorian looks up, throwing her a look. “Those things turned on us! _Because they are bees, not trained monkeys_.”

“What’s a monkey?”

Dorian closes his eyes and Cullen can practically hear him praying for patience.

“Don’t matter. What matters is that the Venatori are down one fortress.” Sera says. “Because bees.”

Cullen feels a sort of grudging admiration and respect for – well. Bees. But still -

“You couldn’t have waited before burning the entire thing to the ground?” Cullen sighs. “We could have used that stronghold.”

“Well. The bees kind of spread everything around.” Sera says. “There’ll be other fortresses. Less bees. A lot less bees.”

Lavellan nods, solemn as anything and Cullen mentally throws his arms up.

He almost misses Kirkwall.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not that bad at this.” Lavellan protests, “I only got lost three times.”

Krem tilts his head to watch as the Inquisitor practically flies up the stairs waving around what is either a bouquet of elf-root and embrium, or the latest attempt to get her to wear Orleisan finery.

“Why does she always up there, you think?” He asks, turning to Dalish. “S’not to see Sera. She goes to the third floor. Nothing’s there.”

Dalish titters, “That’s what _you_ think.”

“What? Secret rendezvous? What’s up there?” Krem shifts in his seat to face her. “Is that where she’s been hiding her boots?”

Dalish shakes her head, brushing her hair out of her faces as she returns to writing one of her letters back to her clan. “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you. It’s a _bow_ thing.” She says, waving towards said _bow_  – glowing crystal and inscribed runes and all – where it’s leaning against the wall next to her.

So it’s a magic thing.

Krem rolls his eyes.

“She’s not doing anything – I don’t know. Dangerous, though, is she?” Krem isn’t sure how or when, but he’s pretty sure that at least half of Skyhold has unofficially _adopted_ her. Or she’s adopted them. The semantics probably don’t matter.

Dalish looks up at him long enough for him to realize how stupid that question was.

“I mean aside from the.” He waves his hand towards the ceiling. “The usual sort. I mean is she doing something she ought not to be. I – _you know what I fucking mean_.”

“It’s fine. You worry too much.” Dalish snorts, scribbling something down in a particularly aggressive scrawl. He’s not sure what language Dalish writes her clan in – considering the elven language itself is incomplete – but it sure as fuck isn’t common. “And you call the Chief _mother_.”

“Uncalled for.” Krem mutters as he pours her another drink, earning a pleased hum, “In this situation I’m the exasperated elder cousin.”

“We don’t have cousins in the Dalish.”

“Because you’re all interbreeding savages.” Krem says, earning a swift kick – then a string of curses. “Why do you always do that? You know I’m wearing armor, you know you’re not wearing shoes. The results don’t change, Dalish.”

“Someday you’ll not be wearing armor and that’s when I’ll have my sweet revenge for all those elven jokes, Vint.” Dalish mutters.

-

“I don’t know how she does it nor do I want to know. All I can say is that she is somewhere in the trees of Skyhold – of which there are about _eight_  – and she could probably stay up there for the foreseeable future as Cole keeps bringing her food and has, I’m told, already brought her blankets and a book to read.” Cullen reports to Josephine and Leliana. “And her condition for coming down is that someone – I’m assuming one of us – ensures that her sleeping furs are returned to her rooms where they belong. Also that someone – Josephine, I’m going to guess – stops sending her to the tailors. The pins, I quote, _hurt and I am certain they do it on purpose, I do not think these tailors like me_.”

“Ah. What if I got new tailors?”

“You could go ask her.” Cullen has better things to do than play negotiator between the Herald of Andraste – who is somewhere in the _trees_ , Cullen hasn’t actually seen her so much as he’s been pelted with bits of paper with her demands written on them in shaky, childish lettering – and his fellow advisors. “Just let the girl alone. The ball is over, what does she even need more clothing for? And who cares where she sleeps as long as she does? Or do none of us remember what happened after Adamant?”

The two women have the presence of mind to look a little guilty.

“It wasn’t us. But I’m certain we can find who was responsible.” Leliana sighs, “She didn’t happen to say anything else, did she?”

“She said that whoever has been fetching her dancing shoes and giving them to Madame de Fer should get pike duty.” Cullen says, “And that she thinks that we need more trees in Skyhold.”

Josephine raises an eyebrow. “And enable her to stay up there longer?”

Cullen shrugs and moves one of his iron markers, “Also she wants Josephine’s people to barter supplies in Val Royeuax, and Leliana’s to infiltrate the College of Magi.”  He pulls out one of the scraps of paper and hands it to Josephine, “Her instructions.”

-

“At the rate you’re going, you’ll be assassinated before the night is over.” Dorian says as Lavellan hops down from the trellis. “Good thing you didn’t end up wearing a skirt after all, otherwise half the palace would’ve seen your smalls by now.” He puts a hand on her waist as they rush towards the ballroom. “Second bell is better than first. Catch your breath?”

“It’s caught.” She says, “There’s blood all over those floors. Someone has been snooping also she has an inappropriate amount of elven artifacts.”

“Save it for after you save her life and get us out of here.” Dorian says, “You didn’t step in the blood, did you?”

“I’m not that bad at this.” Lavellan protests, “I only got lost three times.”

“In the Vestibule.”

“It all looks the same! How was I supposed to tell? It’s not like anyone gave me a _map_.”

Dorian snorts and gently pushes her through the doors towards the Vestibule, “Of course. Try not to get lost somewhere inappropriate, yes? Also, see if you can recue the Commander. A man like that shouldn’t have to make a fighting retreat for his own sanity. I’d do it but, alas, I have other things to do. Like eavesdrop and make people nervous because I am a scary Tevinter mage.”

“You’re not scary,” Lavellan mumbles, “You’re pretty and dashing and charming and which way am I going?”

Dorian nudges her, “Straight until you see Cassandra.”

“Oh. Right. I knew that.” Lavellan blinks, “Dorian have I mentioned how much I hate it here, yet?”

“Not this hour, no.” Dorian laughs. “Go on, my dear, go get them and teach them who’s boss, yes? The sooner you do it, the sooner I can indulge in this wine. Why can’t we get wine like this at Skyhold?”

“I’ll ask Josephine. Where is – “

“Ballroom across the way from Leliana and Cullen.”

“Right. And –  “

“Second bell, not first. Go.”

“See, this is why I brought you along.”

“I love you, too. In all seriousness, do try not to be the one who gets assassinated and completes the grand recollection of my youth for me.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall blinks. And he thinks he should probably be worried that this is the Herald of Andraste.

"Does it even matter? Doesn't Josephine normally handle this?" Lavellan mumbles, slouched low in the seat across from Cullen. It's odd having her here, like this. He's used to sullen-faced recruits and strong-jawed soldiers sitting in that chair getting ready to defend their actions to him. It's a little bizarre to have _her_ here for that. After all, the Inquisitor never has to truly explain anything. And most often, Lavellan - as  _Lavellan_ \- tends to skip explanations in the strange tangle of her own personal logic and rationale.  
  
Cullen leans over the desk, palms up, "Yes. But it's agreed that perhaps I am the best one for you to talk to."  
  
"You hate the Game as much as I do!"  
  
"Yes, but Leliana intimidates you and you wouldn't talk to her, you don't like talking to Josephine about violence, and you absolutely _hate_ telling them _both_ your honest opinions of nobility because they love the Game so much." Cullen replies. "So that leaves me. Inept as I am. I think you'll find that I am somewhat experienced in talking about how annoying nobility can be. I'm Ferelden, it's practically _our_ national pastime."  
  
She'd laugh, normally, but her mouth remains a hard line and her eyes fixed on the corner of his desk. The one with the acorn pyramid. Her fingers curl into the cloth of her sleeves as she slouches even further.  
  
"We are your advisors, Inquisitor." Cullen presses, gently, "What's the point in having us around if you do not allow us to advise?"  
  
"Dorian would say to look _pretty_." Lavellan mumbles, stretching her leg out to press her toes against the foot of Cullen's desk. "Can't we just say I was having a very bad day and I don't want to talk about it?"  
  
"You grabbed a man by the hair, slammed his face against a wall, and told him you'd take his hands if he didn't shut his mouth and think on his," Cullen glances down at the hastily written scout report, "Pathetic, perverted, insular, outdated, base depravities."  
  
Lavellan shifts a little, mouth curving down into a hard frown that makes Cullen uncomfortable. He's not used to her being angry-quiet-sullen like this. Doesn't like it either. Her anger twists her face into harsh, unrecognizable shapes. Strange and stranger.  
  
"It was a _very_ long day." She protests. "And - "  
  
She clams up, suddenly drawing her knees up as she curls away, turning to face the western door of his office. Cullen folds his hands together and waits.  
  
"I don't _know_." She says, finally. "I just don't know. It's normally not so bad, I'm used to shems being _shems_. But there are a lot of shems and there's really only one of _me_ \- no clan or anything, not like the Inquisition is clan, more like _people like me, with elven background kind of clan_  - and I _hear_ them. I hear them with my _knife-ears._ Rabbit. Hare. Slut. Knife-ear. Savage. And I hear them talking about their servants and it's all so _casual_ , like it's just okay. But it's really, _really_ awful and I hate that the Dalish call the city-elves flat-ears and that the two of them can't get along because we're all suffering, aren't we? Isn't it all just _suffering_? Does it matter where it happens? I don't _think_ it does, and it's like that _all the time_ and even the nicest of people Josephine introduces me to look surprised when I can put together a coherent sentence like elves are supposed to be brain-dead nugs. It's just _there_ , isn't it? This - this racism. It's just there. I mean, there are some nice people like _you_ and Dorian and Bull and Leliana and Josephine and stuff. But then there are the people who just - don't think _you're_ people. And are surprised when you _look_ like people and _talk_ like people and _act_ like people but deep down they think, you're the exception because you're the Herald of Andraste, Andraste touched you and _made_ you people, the rest of your sharp-eared-kind are still not people. Just _pretend-people_."  
  
Cullen's stomach twists as she curls tighter and tighter into her little ball, nails digging into her arms as she glares hard at the wall.  
  
"For centuries we have been raised and taught this way." Cullen says slowly standing up to walk around the desk and kneel next to her chair. He touches the arm of the chair - not her - and picks his words carefully. He's not Josephine or Leliana. He's not good at this. Too long fighting and problem solving with a sword and his head, and not enough with his heart. _Maker_ , he's never been good at this, especially when it counts most. "And that is not an excuse. It is hard. But there are those good people out there. And slowly, through the actions of people like you - who are willing to go out into the world and prove everyone else wrong - those good people will slowly start to counterbalance the bad ones. It is difficult. And it _is_ painful. And it is so very, _very_ slow. But do you remember what you said when you were titled Inquisitor?"  
  
"For the Elves." She mumbles after a beat. "For the people. For all of us."  
  
"That's right. You do this because you are proving to Thedas that the elves still stand. You're doing this for us, but you're also doing it for them. To give them courage, and to show everyone else why they're wrong. To make Thedas, as a whole, better. Closing the hole in the Sky, defeating Corypheus - and bringing your people in the woods closer to the ones in the cities, and humans and every other race closer to each other in the process."  
  
Lavellan looks at him with one, large eye before unfolding - limbs spilling out of their tight ball like a flower, she curls her fingers into the gap between his glove and greave.  
  
"Better?"  
  
" _Better_." She says. And it's not her usual expression, no, but the wobbling smile is close and he'll take what he can get.  
  
"Good." He says, nodding to her as he stands up, "I'll tell Josephine what happened. And we'll take care of it. No apologies, no excuses. Just like we always do."  
  
-  
  
"Hello." Blackwall is startled when he comes out of his sleeping quarters to find a girl - the supposed Herald of Andraste - crouching behind the small stack of crates between the door and the smithy's area. She's tucked small and wedged into a corner, "Good morning. I am hiding. _Please_ do not tell anyone you have seen me."  
  
Blackwall blinks. "Ah - may I ask why?"  
  
The Herald - Lavellan, her name was. Lavellan, wrinkles her nose, picking at the knees of her trousers. "Well. It's a very _long_ story." She waves her hand at him, beckoning him closer. "Don't let them see you talking to me! Come!"  
  
Blackwall crouches in front of her, finding himself strangely amused to be caught up in her game - or whatever this is. Maker she's young. Small and young. Can't imagine this being the one they say can close rifts and destroy demons. Can't imagine this tiny slip of a thing being the one who came out of the Fade.  
  
Can't even phantom the idea that she could have possibly murdered the Divine.  
  
Then again, most people could say similar things about _him_.  
  
"So." She says, "I was taking a walk minding my own business when I suddenly see a nug. Not just _any_ nug, mind, but a really dark brown one. And all the ones up here are pink. Actually, almost all of the ones I've _ever_ seen are pink - except that one time with the paint, anyway that doesn't matter, but I can tell that story too, later, if you like? Anyway. I saw a very dark brown nug. I don't mean just _brown_ , brown. I mean very brown! Like - like tree bark brown! But not _these_ trees. I mean. Well. Like the trees you find in really dark forests? _Bother_. Um. Oh. Brown kind of like that Ferelden forder Dennet gave me? Yes! That kind of brown! Dark, dark, _dark_ brown! So I was curious and went after it. But then I ended up getting lost and by the time I realized that the morning bells had rung I was chasing after a ram and now I'm back but Cassandra looks very angry and I'd rather wait for her to calm down to tell her about it."  
  
Blackwall blinks. And he thinks he should probably be worried that this is the Herald of Andraste.  
  
"So why are you hiding _here_?"  
  
"Oh. Because Cassandra is over _there_." Lavellan points in the general area of the soldier's tents. "And that's the only entrance into Haven I can use. I mean. I could technically climb a fence. I guess. But I think she'd see me. And whenever I climb fences people stop to stare at me and I don't know why. That doesn't really help me. I mean. I could tell them not to watch me, but then she'd _hear me_. I don't know, she just has a talent for finding me. Do you think that's odd? I think it's odd, but I wouldn't say it to her face if I were you. Or if I were me. Which I am. _Me_ that is, not _you_. Thought I'm sure it's very interesting to be you. Gray Wardens are very interesting - did you know that the Hero of Ferelden saved a clan of Dalish elves from being werewolves? I think that's very interesting."  
  
This girl would turn people on their heads. She could probably _talk_ the Breach into closing itself.  
  
She blinks at him, smiles.  
  
"I like you. You're nice. You ask good questions. Is anyone watching?"  
  
Blackwall glances up. "No."  
  
"Okay." She says, nodding. Then she turns around and pulls out a very dark brown nug - _the_ very dark brown nug, he supposes - out from. Somewhere. "Wish me luck. I'm going to try and give this to Leliana."  
  
-  
  
Solas is vaguely amused to find Lavellan draped over the red hart's back, one leg idly swinging as she chatters to the patient stag.  
  
"He's very warm." She says when he approaches the fence, "Hello, Solas. He's very warm. And he smells nice. He smells like grass even though there isn't any grass in Haven. Just a lot of snow. Is it ever springtime in Haven?"  
  
"It _is_ spring in Haven." Solas replies. "It's just the mountains, the snow never gets a chance to truly thaw."  
  
The hart slowly walks over to him, turning to put Lavellan at his eye level. Harts are such incredibly smart creatures. Solas reaches out to press his palm to the hart's neck. The stag lets out a low and loud breath of air and returns to eating. Lavellan rubs her face against the hart's thick ruff.  
  
"I missed stags." She sighs. "And halla. They have such pretty eyes."  
  
Solas agrees. There's something incredibly beautiful in the sort of solemn darkness of a stag's eyes. Something knowing and wise. A different sort of knowing that belies a deeper intelligence.  
  
"Have you been out here all morning?"  
  
"Well, no. First I was on the fence. Then I was on the hay. Now I am on the stag." She says. Well. It answers the question. Solas hums in acknowledgement, idly stroking the stag's neck. "Why? Is there anything going on I should know about?"  
  
"Not particularly." Solas says, "I was simply curious when you haven't been seen asking people about various things. It's come to be something of an expected ritual."  
  
"The Quartermaster looked very busy." Lavellan replies, entirely serious, "And Bull told me I should wait at least a day to give people time to recover and get new answers or they'd run out of words to talk with."  
  
"I see."  
  
"That explains why the hahren were always so frustrated, you know. They could have just _told_ me they'd run out of words instead of telling me to shut up." Lavellan stretches her arms as far around the hart as they will go. "I would definitely have waited for their words to recover."  
  
Solas' mental evaluation of the Iron Bull goes a little up. The way he handles her questions and teaches her is admirable. And he's gotten used to her thought process quite quickly. He reminds himself to thank the qunari on behalf of the rest of them, later.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric raises an eyebrow. "Even if I were sorry, do you think I'd be able to get close enough to the Seeker to say it without her trying to cut my head off?"

"Vivienne?" Lavellan looks up from the thin book of Orlesian fables Vivienne has been attempting to correct her pronounciation with.  
  
"Yes, my dear?" Vivienne replies. She is very fond of this book - Bastien's children learned to read on this book. His _grandchildren_ learned to read on this book. It's been in his family for generations. How many times had she watched him read this book to one of his grandchildren? So many. Not enough. He always looked so pleased. So happy. He even did the voices for certain characters, sometimes. She thinks that he would have been delighted to know that the Herald of Andraste was learning Orlesian with it.  
  
"Why is the Iron Bull so scared of you?"  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Vivienne smiles, "In Orlesian, now."  
  
Lavellan's nose scrunches up. The girl is a delight, but she will be terrible at the Game. She _is_ terrible at the Game. Oh, she can talk people into circles without even trying, throwing them on their heads and leaving them tangled in knots of their own answers to hang with, but she's so easy to read. For all that she is foreign, she is clear as a bell.  
  
"You make him nervous." She says, carefully feeling her way through the words, "And he calls you _ma'am_. You don't seem old enough to be a _ma'am_."  
  
Vivienne laughs, touching Lavellan's wrist with her fingertips, "It's a sign of respect, dear. Calling someone _ma'am_ doesn't always indicate age. Thought it may to some. And I shall find myself flattered you think me young enough that I do not warrant that."  
  
"But you _are_ young?" Lavellan blinks, squinting her eyes at Vivienne's face. "You don't look that old."  
  
"Which is very sweet and smart of you to say." Vivienne says, "As to why the Iron Bull acts that way around me, I suppose he recognizes authority when he sees it."  
  
"He doesn't act that way around _me_ , and everyone says I'm supposed to be the authority." Lavellan mutters, " _No one_ acts that way around me. Except the visitors to Skyhold. And usually they're just surprised I'm clean looking and not foaming at the mouth."  
  
Vivienne clicks her tongue. "In time, darling, they'll learn what kind of greatness to expect from you. Come now, finish the story. You're getting much better at this. You could barely make it through two pages the last time we practiced. And now look at you, halfway through the story and only a few corrections necessary. You're doing spectacularly well. Josephine will be so pleased."  
  
-  
  
"Cole and I are helping repair dummies for Cassandra." Lavellan says, plunking down in the chair Varric always makes sure to keep empty for her. "She's still very mad about Hawke and at the rate we're going, we're going to run out of straw. As it is, I don't want to ask Cole where he's been getting the straw. I'm half afraid he's going to tell me he harvested it from a field himself. I think you should apologize."  
  
Varric raises an eyebrow. "Even if I were sorry, do you think I'd be able to get close enough to the Seeker to say it without her trying to cut my head off?"  
  
"If you can survive demons, Venatori, and red templars, you can _probably_ dodge Cassandra." She says after a moment of serious thought.  
  
"It's not comforting that you don't even deny that she'd try it."  
  
"She'd try it, but I'm sure she'd feel bad about it later." Lavellan assures him, stretching her legs underneath the table.  
  
"As my blood soaks her boots?"  
  
"Alright, I'd be there so I could try and stop her." Lavellan adds on, "You should apologize. And I'm sure Cassandra is sorry for trying to break your nose."  
  
Varric snorts, shaking his head as he goes back to penning a letter to Daisy - almost ten years and she's still emptying out a good portion of his coffers. Not as much as before, granted. But still. Would it kill her to take a well-lit mainstreet instead of one of those iffy side-streets and alleyways?  
  
What is he saying? It's Kirkwall. Probably _yes_.  
  
"Poppy, short of divine intervention, I don't think the Seeker is ever going to want to talk to me again. And frankly? I'm alright with that."  
  
Varric doesn't see it because he's trying to figure out how to ask Merrill to try and not make him want to have a heart attack - he's not young anymore - and take a fucking main street for once in her life, but Lavellan jumps up to run over to try and find Cassandra.  
  
Everyone says she's the Herald of Andraste. Doesn't that mean _she's_ divine intervention?  
  
-  
  
"You guys getting along with the Inquisition alright?" Bull asks about a week and a half after they've settled outside of Haven.  
  
"Yeah, we're good. Training with the soldiers, sometimes. Not good, not bad." Krem replies, "Commander's got a good head on those feathery shoulders."  
  
"The Herald of Andraste is a sweet little thing." Dalish replies. "I've forgotten what it's like to talk with one of the people."  
  
"She's talked to you?" Krem turns to stare at her. "I've only seen her once this entire time and it was her running past me to chase after a brown nug."  
  
"Ah, yes, Rex the nug. He's sweet." Dalish says, "She's not too sure on the hands, but he likes her well enough."  
  
Bull hums. He's seen her in glimpses, mostly she's been staring from afar when she thinks he can't see her - hiding on his blind spot, smart kid. Also hiding high up, peripheral vision. Upper corner. Clever use of the surroundings. He likes her in _theory_. She's interesting. Not sure if he'll like her for certain, though. Hasn't actually spoken with her yet.  
  
"She talks to Grim. Though I don't think she realizes he's a Charger." Dalish adds on. "She likes him. Thinks he's _swell_."  
  
Grim grunts, shrugging when they all turn to him.  
  
"Saw her sneaking out of Haven." Skinner says, "Quick on her feet. Could be better. She handles knives well. Watched her skin game."  
  
Well. If _Skinner_ says someone's good with a knife...  
  
"So has everyone seen her but us?"  
  
"No." Stitches and Rocky grunt.  
  
"I've seen her, but I haven't talked to her." Skinner says. "She only talks to Dalish and Grim."  
  
"She's delightful." Dalish says, "You'll like her. She'll surprise you."  
  
"What do you two even talk about?" Krem asks.  
  
Dalish looks him in the eye. "Old _elven_ tricks, you wouldn't understand."  
  
-  
  
Cassandra's door flies open and she nearly throws a knife at Dorian's head before she realizes it's him -  
  
"What?"  
  
"You've gotten the Herald of Andraste reading your _garbage_!" Dorian says, waving a hand, "Bad enough you got Cole - and me, for that matter - but you've looped her into it as well?"  
  
Cassandra feels her face flush hot. "How was I supposed to know that she would want to read it? She doesn't even _like_ reading!"  
  
"The girl is in love with stories. And absolutely gone over _love stories_." Dorian rolls his eyes, " _Kaffas_ , woman. She's been practically dying a little on the inside every time she sees Blackwall and Josephine _breathe_ in each other's directions. She thinks that Cullen's crush on the Hero of Ferelden when the two of them were teenagers was _sweet_. She's absolutely besotted with figuring out the origin of the name _Bianca_. And you didn't think she'd be interested in _Swords and Shields_? Thank Andraste that it's _tame_ literature. Tooth-decayingly sweet and trite, yes, and a terrible piece of writing all around - and yes, you can tell Varric I've said that. I'll say it to his face myself, even. - but at least it's tame." Dorian pauses to give Cassandra a fond look. "You know when you lent me _Swords and Shields_ I really was expecting something a touch more on the naughty side. You are a _treasure_ , Seeker."  
  
Cassandra sputters. It's a romance. And it isn't - _tame_.  
  
"But, Maker give me strength, that girl has been sucked into the world of romance stories - terrible romance stories - thanks to you. And you need to take responsibility for this by at least giving her a background in the classics."  
  
"Me?" Cassandra glares, "You're the one who's books she picks up first, _Tevinter_. You're at least partially to blame for anything. Besides, what do _I_ know about the classics?"  
  
Dorian snorts. "Everything? Please, I know your type. You read utter drivel like this to feel alive, but I also know that you have a decent background in the real literature." Dorian crosses his arms and taps his foot. "Or am I to believe that you have not read any of the great romance plays or sonnets?"  
  
"I might have." Cassandra frowns. "Still, why me? I'm no teacher. Besides, she listens to you. If anyone should be teaching her the classics its you. Because apparently only your taste is good enough. Swords and Shields is wonderful."  
  
Dorian sputters, "Me? I don't think so. No. No. No. I am not tutoring the Herald of Andraste in romance literature. That was not why I signed up for this. What would I even know about romance aside from how delicious the banned books are?"  
  
They both glare at each other for a moment before deciding at once -  
  
" _Josephine_."


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Close enough. The rest of Skyhold can be the extended family." Josephine teases. "I do wonder who becomes the mother in this situation."

"Inquisition." Dennet calls her that rather than by her name, though she's asked him to at least ten times already. He just calls her _Inquisition_. Sometimes Inquisitor. But mostly _Inquisition_ , like she is the entire group itself. She thinks it's odd but if that's what pleases him then she's alright with it. She's fairly certain he likes her, his wife sends her care packages every month. And Varric helps her read the letters Dennet's daughter sends with them, because she isn't very good at reading her writing. It's very messy, according to Varric, so it's not Lavellan's fault. Lavellan's own ability to read is rather shakey as it is without the additional trouble of half the letters looking smudged and cramped into little tangles of ink on weather-beaten paper.  
  
"Hello, Dennet." She replies. She likes the stables. They're her second favorite part of all of Skyhold, with the first favorite part being the garden because there are actual trees there. Nice trees. And nice grass. And flowers. _Mm_. No. Wait. _Stables_ as her first favorite, garden as her _second_ favorite.  
  
All the Chantry sisters are in the garden. It makes it very, _very_ hard to give thanks to Mythal when there are about four or five women all whispering the Chant at any given moment.  
  
Dennet nods to her and points her towards the stalls he hasn't gotten to yet and she scrambles to start. He used to protest, back in Haven, that she was the Herald of Andraste, she had better things to do than muck out stalls, brush hair, and things. He stopped after a while. Lavellan thinks she won him over when she brought in the Hart. Or the courser. She's not sure, really.  
  
Lavellan pauses by her hart's stall to reach over and rub his nose. He puffs at her. She croons.  
  
"Ma'vhenan." She saves him for last because he's _her_ favorite. But she loves all their mounts, it's just that he's _hers_. Hers in a way nothing _else_ in the world is _hers_.  
  
She spends the morning chattering at the horses who whinny back, giving each one a hug and a kiss before going to the next one. She has to make it fair, after all. Just because her vhenan is her favorite doesn't mean she shouldn't love any of the others less. And she does _love_ them. She loves them because they work so hard to keep the humans and dwarves and elves and qunari she loves safe, and they get so little thanks, they are one of the most under-appreciated members of the Inquisition. The mounts and Leliana's birds and the moucers and the hounds. Everyone always forgets the animals and she's not certain _why_.  
  
She brushes the mane of Cassandra's horse and whispers her thanks and gratitude for taking care of her friend and for being so brave and strong and loyal to a liquid eye that blinks with long lashes at her, slowly. Gets a warm-wet breath of air puffed into her face that she returns. She holds out an apple half to Cullen's courser and thanks her for carrying Cullen's fully armored weight so far and so well and for being so patient with the man because really, Cullen should stop by the stables more often and get a run in, she'll try to get him to do that soon. Promise, _really_. She brushes the flanks of the Ferelden forder Dennet first gave her and presses her face against his neck, tells him that he's wonderful and she'll go out with him later and she's sorry that she doesn't ride him more and she hopes that he's enjoying it whenever Josephine comes down to feed him sugar cubes and take him out for short rides. Josephine is sweet, they'll be good friends. He lips at her sleeve and pushes his nose at her belly.  
  
Lavellan attempts to get into the dracolisk's stall but is stopped when Blackwall - "Oh, good morning, Blackwall. I didn't see you there. Did you eat yet? I know it isn't breakfast but really you shouldn't do stable work hungry, the carrots here are for the mounts not for us. There is straw in your hair. Wait, let me - I got it! We really need to get you a better bed."  
  
"I'm still not switching rooms with you, my lady."  
  
"I never said _that_." Lavellan protests, kicking her heel against the stable floor and muttering, "You're so _stubborn_."  
  
"Go take care of your hart. He's starting to look jealous." Blackwall says, gently pushing her to the next stall. "Dennet and I've got _this one._ "  
  
The dracolisk hisses.  
  
Lavellan shoots one last longing look at the lizard, mouths, "I'll come back for you, later.", and hopes into the her vhenan's stall, throwing her arms around his great neck.  
  
"Good morning, ma'vhenan!" She says, muffled into his neck. She feels his answer against her skin as he rumbles, bending and curving his neck in an almost hug. She rises onto her toes to hug as much as possible before moving around to take care of his stall. "Did you sleep well? Was it too cold? Have you made good friends with the others? Blackwall's destier and the forder are going to be wonderful friends, don't you think? I know they have their differences but it's been almost half a year and I think they're really starting to get along, now."  
  
She chatters away until she hears the bells ring - and that means breakfast proper which she has to have in the grand hallway with everyone else, otherwise she gets in _trouble_ \- so she gives her hart one last squeeze, gets a soft-velvet-kiss, and goes to fetch Blackwall.  
  
-  
  
"Dalish is very pretty." Lavellan sighs, chin in her hands as she kicks her feet under the table. "I hope that I"m as pretty as Dalish is, someday. She must be fought over at the Arlathvhens. Mythal - she must be so _popular_."  
  
Bull raises an eyebrow at her. "Should I be worried that you're gonna make off - or out - with my. Uh. _Archer_?"  
  
"Don't be silly, Bull. I want to _be_ her, not be _with_ her." Lavellan rolls her eyes. "I mean. Look at those ears. _Wow_." Lavellan touches the tips of her own ears. "Mine aren't nearly as lovely as hers. And that nose. Mine is too _blegh_. It ruins the face, you know. The nose. Well. Not _your_ nose. _My_ nose. On my face. Specifically."  
  
"Your nose looks fine from here."  
  
"But you're a qunari. It's _different_ for _qunari_." Lavellan protests, stretching her arms out as Dalish approaches. "Dalish, how did you get so pretty? Teach me your secrets?"  
  
Dalish laughs, linking her fingers with Lavellan's across the table. "You're _plenty_ lovely, yourself, da'len. You just need to grow a bit more."  
  
Lavellan whines, "I've been growing for twenty years! When do I stop looking awkward?"  
  
"It strikes me that maybe the elves have a different beauty standard." Stitches says as he looks between the two women. "Because you look _fine_."  
  
"I haven't grown into my ears at all." Lavellan mourns. Dalish ruffles her hair.  
  
"In time, da'len. It took me at least five more summers than you to grow into mine."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really." Dalish pats Lavellan's hands. "And you have the most lovely eyes. You're going to be a killer at the Arlathvhen. They'll have to beat them off with sticks. _Flaming_ sticks."  
  
Bull has sudden flashes of images of holding Lavellan up on one shoulder and flicking elves away with his maul. It's not that she _can't_ make those choices, it's just hard to _imagine_ her doing that. Fuck, he's getting soft. She's like a kid. _His_ kid. But not really because she's his boss. He isn't nearly drunk enough to deal with these feelings. Bull sighs and he's fairly sure that no one in the history of fucking _ever_ , ever had to deal with the conflict of worrying about their boss' virtue. She deserves a nice _someone_. He wonders if the others ever think about this kind of thing also, or if he's just alone in his general eye-twitch inducing anxiety for the future of their tiny boss. He'll ask Varric and Cassandra later.  
  
Lavellan blushes. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."  
  
"No, no. Trust me on this one. The eyes are the windows to the soul. And you have such a lovely one."  
  
-  
  
"And what makes anyone think that I actually have any authority over her?" Cullen protests, "I'm her _war_ advisor. Military. Sometimes she asks me about the Chant and I just send her off to Mother Giselle."  
  
"And then she goes back to _you_ to make sure Mother Giselle isn't lying to her or trying to trick her." Leliana points out.  
  
"I'm not her guardian. I can't tell her to do things and expect her to do them." Cullen says, "She barely even _listens_ to me. She barely listens to _anyone_. Except Madame de Fer and sometimes Cassandra. Why don't you go to _them_ about it?"  
  
"She _likes_ you." Josephine points out. "Out of all of us, you're the closest to a familial guardian figure she _has_."  
  
"Solas. Bull. Cassandra. Dorian." Cullen ticks off, "Varric. Maybe Blackwall - wait, no. Never mind. Not Blackwall. Krem. Yes. _Krem_. Grim. For some strange reason. _Grim_."  
  
Josephine raises a single, graceful eyebrow. Leliana just hums. Cullen braces himself.  
  
"Solas is her teacher." Leliana starts, " _Hahren_ to her _da'len_. She looks to him for certain matters, yes, but ultimately his purpose in her life is to teach and guide. To shape and to influence. Students make mistakes, students don't always listen. And teachers allow that so that they may learn and grow from the process. Bull watches over her, but she is - ultimately - his employer. Cassandra guards her and protects her, but has no authority to order her or make her do anything. Rather, Lavellan views her as a watcher, someone who's grasp she must slip and elude in order to play. A governess, if you will."  
  
Cullen snorts and Josephine covers her smile with the back of her hand.  
  
"The image of Cassandra as a governess is perhaps a little strong. But yes. Dorian is her friend, above all things. Her _best_ friend. They get each other into trouble. Varric watches over her, yes, but he does not feel responsible for her."  
  
"And you're saying I do?"  
  
" _Yes_." The women chime.  
  
"And Krem also sees her as an employer. And while they are close, while they are friends, there is a sense of reverence to his attitude for her. A distance. We're just going to ignore Grim. I don't think anyone can say anything for or against Grim as _anything_."  
  
"And you're saying I don't? Well - what about you two?"  
  
"She's afraid of me. It's not as bad as it was before, but we're working on it. Regardless, I do not think she would ever be able to see me in the light she sees you." Leliana says. "I'm too strange for her."  
  
"And she views me as a teacher. A kind friend." Josephine says, "A friend she doesn't want to disappoint."  
  
"Should I be offended that none of you consider that she thinks of _me_ as a friend?"  
  
"She thinks of you as her guardian." Leliana says, "Out of all of us here, you're the only one who can tell her what to do with some success. You look at her like you look at your soldiers.  Your responsibility. She understands that, at some level. So she listens. Usually."  
  
"Emphasis on _usually_." Cullen sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Andraste preserve me, you make it sound like I'm her _father_."

He's not old enough to be her father. Maker's _breath_.  
  
"Close enough. The rest of Skyhold can be the extended family." Josephine teases. "I do wonder who becomes the mother in this situation."  
  
"The hart, maybe." Leliana laughs, "That stag certainly hovers over her enough."  
  
Cullen groans. "It's not right. You two are terrible."  
  
"And _you're_ the one who's going to tell her that she's grounded until further notice." Leliana replies. "She's going to hate you for _weeks_."  
  
Cullen glares. "You just don't want to be the one who gets that _look_. I'm not any better equipped to deal with _the look_ than the rest of Skyhold."  
  
"No, but it will be so very, very amusing to watch you try to deal with it."


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And what do you suggest? We tell her to eat her vegetables? Stick it through another round of meat? Slow down on the bread? And why are you coming to me with this?"

"They asked her to _what_?" Dorian exclaims, coughing - Cullen reaches over and thumps him on the back, hard. "Where was _I_ when this was happening? Why didn't I see it? Why am I never around to see these things - only the terrible things like dragons appearing out of nowhere and undead rising from lakes?"  
  
"You were arguing with Krem over wine vintages." Josephine says, refilling his glass. "It was - startling, to say the least. I don't know who was more surprised, Lavellan or Mother Giselle."  
  
"Asked to bless _babies_." Dorian repeats, "Asked to _bless_ babies. To give them the blessing of the _Maker_. What did she do?"  
  
"Well, she couldn't exactly _do_ anything, could she?" Cullen replies. "She doesn't believe, she barely knows a single verse from the Chant - and it's the canticle from Archon Hessarian, so it's not like it's one of the more popular canticles - "  
  
"It's a _banned_ canticle. One of the dissonant verses." Dorian snorts, "Please. Don't tiptoe around it."  
  
"So she just stood there and held the baby." Cullen finishes. "Mumbled some things and touched the baby with the Anchor, gave the baby back, then climbed up a tree and ran over the rooftops to go hide underneath Solas' desk."  
  
"Sounds like something she'd do." Dorian admits. "And now there's - a queue of babies waiting to be blessed by the heretic herald?"  
  
"And elderly _and_ infirm." Josphine says, waves to a stack of papers shuffled to the side of her desk. "It's rather daunting to think about. I don't know how to refuse them. This is harder than working around all those marriage proposals. For the Herald _and_ Cullen."  
  
Dorian snorts, "I _knew_ we'd have to beat them off with sticks. That's the only way to deal with these things, you know. You have to show them who's boss. Don't let them sense your fear. Make a firm showing - ah. Perhaps not as firm as the Commnder's stately musculature. But you know what I mean."  
  
Cullen throws a glare the man's way. "I don't even know why I come to these meetings."  
  
"Because we need to air you out." Dorian replies, "It's a shame to let you moulder away in that tower of yours where no one can see you. Does the Commander exist? Is he a myth? Perhaps he's only a shouting voice at the ass-crack of dawn yelling at poor sleepy-eyed recruits. A spirit that appears only when the conditions are right. Also, you _like_ the gossip."  
  
"I _don't_."  
  
"You do. In your little heart of hearts you _do_."  
  
"Back to the topic at hand." Josephine cuts in, "How do we ah - say that the Inquisitor is not available for...kissing babies?"  
  
"It does sound rather mean, doesn't it?" Dorian muses.  
  
"You could simply say that the Inquisitor doesn't feel comfortable giving the blessing of Andraste." Cullen points out. "And that she isn't Andrastian."  
  
"But the point is that everyone _else_ is Andrastian and everyone else believes." Josephine sighs. "This would be easier if the Herald stopped saving so many lives in ways that could be mistaken for divine miracles."  
  
"You might as well ask for the sky while you're at it." Cullen snorts. "And for the end of all slavery, prejudice, and hypocrisy."  
  
-  
  
"There's a giant stag chasing scouts and soldiers outside of Haven." Josephine says, sounding slightly frazzled as she approaches Leliana.  
  
"I am aware. I can hear it." Leliana replies.  
  
"Deer aren't supposed to be this far north." Josephine continues. "At least - not deer that _large_. Are they _supposed_ to be that large?"  
  
"He's a hart, they're all that big." Leliana says.  
  
"You seem remarkably calm about an incredibly violent wild animal attempting to gore through our ranks just outside our gates."  
  
"He's not trying to kill anyone, Josie. He's just _playing_." Leliana replies, a flash of a smile on her face as she organizes reports. Josephine raises an eyebrow. "He's probably the Herald's, you realize. The harts are Dalish mounts. Something like mabari to Fereldens." She says, "He probably came looking for her."  
  
"She's not due back from the Hinterlands for another _week_." Josephine says, just as a hair-raising bellow thunders through Haven. She barely resists flinching. You can even hear it scream from inside the Chantry.  
  
"Well, let's just hope he gets tired of teasing our recruits soon, shall we?" Leliana shrugs. "At least the Herald will have a nice surprise to return to."  
-  
  
"The Herald of Andraste does not get into _bar brawls_." Vivienne lectures, clicking her tongue as she applies poultice to Lavellan's rapidly swelling black eye with frost-tipped fingers. "I am very disappointed in you, Inquisitor."  
  
"I didn't _mean_ to." Lavellan protests, "It just _happened_. I was just trying to get a room for us and then someone called me a knife-ear - "  
  
Vivienne raises an eyebrow, "And you fought them? Scores of people have called you worse and you've never batted an eye."  
  
"I didn't! It wasn't _me_! Someone else from behind me yelled," Lavellan pitches her voice lower and adopts a Ferelden accent, " - _Don't you call the Herald of Andraste a knife-ear!_ \- and got up and started the fight. Then someone was yelling that a rabbit can't be the Herald of Andraste and then there was a bar fight and I got hit in the face but I used that move Skinner taught me and I got out okay." Lavellan plays with her fingers a little. "And I left money for the owners, I think it was enough to cover damages?"  
  
Lavellan's grasp on human currency is rather tenuous at best. In all likelihood, she either left too much by at least an entire sovereign,  or too little supplemented in acorns and wood chips. Vivienne makes a mental note to have Lavellan write down the name of this inn so that they can make proper restitution.  
  
"Well." Vivienne sighs, "It is still no excuse. A bar fight of all things. This is why you should send one of the scouts or soldiers instead. That is what they are here for, darling. It would make life _so_ much easier."  
  
"I can get a room at an inn by myself." Lavellan frowns, "I can! _Really_!"  
  
"Of course you can, dear. I never said you couldn't. I just said you shouldn't."  
  
-  
  
"I am concerned with the Inquisitor's diet." Vivienne declares one day, arranging herself in the seat across from Varric. "She gets thinner every time I see her. Soon she'll just be a poor thing of skin and bones and that mark on her hand."  
  
"Have you actually seen her eat?" Varric replies.  
  
"Have _you_?" Vivienne returns, eyebrow raising. "It's incredibly unbalanced."  
  
"She ate half a chicken, two rolls, and half a plate of greens all by herself for lunch." Varric says, "Then an apple."  
  
"She had half an egg for breakfast." Vivienne returns, " _Half_ an egg. I do not think I have ever seen anyone eat only half an egg before. Half of a hard boiled egg."  
  
"So she makes up for it by eating half of the chicken who laid the thing."  
  
"It's not healthy. It's not good for the system." Vivienne says, folding her hands in her  lap. "And that's not even talking about what she eats when she's out of Skyhold. Those field rations aren't kind to her."  
  
"It's because she eats as she goes." Varric says, "Picking nuts, berries, chewing on plants no one knows where or when she picked up, sometimes sucking on leaves. It's kind of like having a baby. She just puts things in her mouth and at a certain point you have to stop telling her to spit it out and hope that she doesn't die because that's what babies - and apparently our Herald - does. Put strange objects in her mouth that apparently don't kill her. Just make her that much stranger. But you learn to let it go because you love her and it's bad for the heart to be that stressed all the time."  
  
Vivienne sighs.  
  
"It's not balanced. It's not healthy for her."  
  
"And what do you suggest? We tell her to eat her vegetables? Stick it through another round of meat? Slow down on the bread? And why are you coming to me with this?"  
  
"Because out of all the people I could talk to you seemed the most reasonable." Vivienne replies. "I would talk to the Commander but he doesn't care so much about what she eats so much as she _does_ and to him that's the end of the story. I would tell Cassandra but that is just asking to end in disaster. There is, of course, the Iron Bull. But I think he would just hand her an apple or an orange and call it a day."  
  
"Well. You're not wrong." Varric snorts. "Alright, I'll try to think up a game plan for getting our Inquisitor to eat better. Andraste, those are words I never thought I'd be saying."  
  
"Thank you, Varric. You are so delightfully competent."


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s been staring at the mosaic pieces all morning and I’m starting to grow concerned.” Varric says, “She’s going to turn into you.”

“She’s been staring at the mosaic pieces all morning and I’m starting to grow concerned.” Varric says, “She’s going to turn into you.”

Solas ignores him.

“She’s going to just stare at walls all day muttering to herself, generally looking like she’s taken a flying leap into the deep end and then what will we do?” Varric continues. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to throw her something crazy. Make her do something. Something that isn’t staring at a different wall.”

“She’s studying. There’s nothing wrong with furthering her academic interests.” Solas says, flipping through his research notes.

“She’s staring at a wall with two gold plates on it.” Varric replies. “What in the Void could she possibly be studying there? Mortar? Granted, she sometimes stands outside to watch leaves move in the wind and sometimes just watches ants, but this is a whole new level of weird. The unacceptable kind.”

“If her study displeases you so much – “

“I’m not upset because she’s _learning_. Don’t twist my words on me, Chuckles. She isn’t learning anything staring at _a wall_.”

“ – then why don’t _you_ speak to her of your concerns?”

“Have you actually met this kid?” Varric snorts, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “It takes more than _one person_ to get her to do something. And I figure if you’re the one telling her then maybe she won’t pretend to stop then go back and stare at the wall for another hour. ”

Solas raises an eyebrow. “So, essentially, you are telling me that you have already told her and failed.”

“Sure, whatever. However you want to say it as long as you get that kid out into some sunshine or something.”

“Despite what you keep calling her, she is not actually a plant, Varric.” Solas points out as he stands, slowly cracking his back, wincing. What time is it? “And she is more than capable of seeking out the things she needs should she need them. Sunlight included.”

-

“Are you – what happened to you?” Cullen blinks as the Inquisitor stumbles into the crowd, practically falling against the wall next to him, out of breath. The crowd of twittering nobles dissipates when she arrives – thank Andraste – but there are still people watching. Cullen reaches out to steady her with one hand.

“Is that good?” She asks, instead, pointing at the champagne glass he’s been nursing the entire night. Without waiting, she takes it and downs its contents, making a face when she hands the glass back to him. “That feels very odd. Bubbly. Like drinking lightning.”

“It’s champagne – are you _alright_?” Cullen is fairly sure that’s blood on her tunic. A small fleck of it a darker, browner red than the rest of her. “Catch your breath first.”

Lavellan nods, fingers curling into his arm as he holds her steady.

“Dead elves and blood.” She says after deep, controlled breaths. “Also Venatori. Are _all balls like this?_ How have you shems even lasted this long? If we started assassinating each other whenever we gathered we’d be dead by now.”

“Not all – “ Cullen begins, thinks about it, winces. “Well, it’s not always _this_ bad, I should think. And there are a lot of humans to replace the ones that get killed.”

“This is true.” Lavellan says. “I got lost getting here and I ended up making a run for it when I saw some of the people Josephine told me to avoid coming my way. Also Dorian wanted me to save you from your admirers. Are you really that popular?”

“Apparently, yes.” Cullen replies. “Venatori? How many?”

“I don’t know, they just pop up. Like weeds. We killed the ones we found. There are probably more lurking.” She takes a swift glance around the room. “Is there anything to eat? I’m so hungry – I feel like we’ve been here for hours.”

“We _have_ been here for hours.” Cullen says. And they will be here for hours more before the night is through. Cullen isn’t looking forward to those long hours. Long hours of being sober and paying attention with his back to a wall and hoping that he doesn’t get tricked into anything by these _Orlesians_.

Lavellan’s face is dismayed. “I was just hoping that it felt longer than it actually was. And here I thought I was making _progress_.”

“You are making progress.”

“Faster progress.” Lavellan huffs, “Where’s Leliana?”

Cullen points to a spot a few tables down where Leliana is casually reclining and exchanging gossip. He’s fairly certain that the only reason he hasn’t gotten into worse trouble is because Leliana is scaring the worst of them off with her sheer presence.

“Oh good. I’ve been listening to nobles gossip all night and I still can’t make heads or tails on what’s important.” She says, straightening up and sucking in a deep breath. “I have no idea how people do this for a living.”

-

“Remind me why we’re here?” Dorian asks as Lavellan inspects a small little – well. It appears to be a shrine of flowers.

“I’m following a rumor that Dalish told me.” Lavellan says, straightening up from her crouch and taking a few steps back to examine the little stone cave. “I’m fairly sure this is the spot.”

“As opposed to all the other miniature caves covered in flowers we always run into?” Sera snorts - “What’re you doing?”

Lavellan has climbed on top of the cave and started jumping, counting under her breath.

Dorian stares and turns to look at Cassandra who just shrugs from where she’s sitting at the river bank, and returns to soaking her feet and wiping the blood off of her armor. Dorian never thought there’d be a day when the woman attracted something more dangerous than a bear, but then _giant bears_ became a thing and Dorian hates wildlife.

“I have to jump on it fifty times.” Lavellan says, “That’s what Dalish told me.”

“You’re jumpin’ on a rock because _Dalish_ told you?” Sera repeats, “You won’t even try eating apples and cheese together when I told you.”

“Because apples and cheese don’t go together, Sera.” Lavellan snorts. “Especially not cheese _on_ apples.”

“And somehow Dalish is more reliable than _me_?”

“Well – in things like this, yes.” Lavellan says, pausing. Frowning before glaring at Sera. “I lost _count_.”

“What exactly is this rumor?” Dorian asks, joining Cassandra and starting to pull off his boots so he can soak his own feet.

“Jump on the shrine in the Emerald Graves fifty times and a treasure will reveal itself.” Lavellan says. “Sera help me count.”

“Fuck it, no.” Sera says, “I’m going to stand here and watch you, then laugh when nothing happens.”

“Come on, Sera, I helped you fill jars with _bees_. You could at least count with me.”

“No, because this is stupid.”

“ _Sera_.”

“No!”

“Dorian!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Cassandra?”

“I am not getting up until I have all the blood off, Inquisitor.” Cassandra says, scrubbing at her boots with some sand in the water.

“Well, fine. No one is getting a share of the treasure.” Lavellan huffs, and starts jumping again. “It’ll just be me and Cole and Varric. Because _they’re good friends who believe in me_.”

-


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She really needs to put her in the same room as Alistair.

“You _told her what_ and she _didn’t kill you_?” Sera spits out, coughing hard as her eyes water. Lavellan fidgets in the seat next to her, eyes darting around.

“ _Shhh_. I think she’s just waiting.” Lavellan thumps Sera on the back, “Are you okay?”

“Me? Forget _me_  – how did you get out of that conversation _alive_?” Sera says, “Andraste – she’s gonna assassinate you in your sleep.”

Lavelaln looks at her anchor mark, “Maybe she’ll wait until I close the Breach and then I can make a run for it? Do you think Solas would help? I feel like he’s good at disappearing. I mean – he must be if he’s lasted that long by himself without getting caught, right?”

“Maybe she’ll wait, or maybe she’ll launch a surprise attack.” Sera replies. “You hope that mark keeps you safe – what the hell kind of idiot are you?”

“I was just – _she asked!”_

“You should’ve _lied!”_

“Varric says I’m a terrible liar and I was nervous! I’ve never met shem _nobility_ before.” Lavellan flings her arms up. “Her hat intimidated me!”

“So you _told her the friggin truth?”_

“ _She asked!”_

“You should’ve given her the answer she wanted to hear!”

“But she asked for my – “

“Oh for the love of – you are so shit at this. You are going to be killed. Fucking – “ Sera stands up and Lavellan flings her arms around the other girl’s waist, “Lemme go before your shit luck rubs off on me!”

“Sera don’t leave me, I’m scared!” Lavellan says, face pressed against Sera’s hip. “Vivienne is going to cut off my ears and turn me into a servant for this, I just know it!”

“Then you shouldn’t have told her you thought humans are barbarians!” Sera tries to pry her off, “Quit it! People are starin’!”

Lavellan whines. “But it’s true, isn’t it? That’s why they put their mages in towers? Because shems are violent and scary and like setting things on fire so you put them all of the scariest ones – the ones with magic and the ones good with swords and punching things - in one place and hope for the best?”

“Oh my god, tell that to your Commander, please, I’m begging you.” Sera says, “I want to see his face.”

“What was I supposed to think?” Lavellan protests. “We don’t do that among the Dalish. We get along just fine because we listen to our Keepers and when we don’t our Keepers know how to fix it. Shems don’t know things because they’re all yelling at each other and setting things on fire like brutes. I mean – as soona s I walked into her party I got challenged to a _duel Sera. A duel_.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this. I feel like this is some particular sort of blasphemy or something. We’re gonna get smited. Smote. Smitten. Hehe. Smitten.”

-

“Hello. Yes. Herald of Andraste. That’s me. Or they _say_ it’s me, I’m not so certain on that, myself. I mean. It could be Mythal but whenever I say that people get a look – that look! Exactly that one. How did you know it was that look?” Josephine can practically _hear_ Lavellan leaning in to get a closer look at the visiting dignitary’s face and turns to Leliana.

“I should be in there with her.”

“If we don’t give her room to practice and try on her own how will she ever learn?” Leliana replies.

“You’re just enjoying this because the last time he visited he insulted your nugs.”

Leliana just smiles, waiting for the Inquisitor to eventually meander over to Josephine’s office in her very – ah. Round-about-manner. She’s very endearing.

“Besides, people need to get used to her.” Leliana says, “She’s an experience.”

Josephine feels herself start to smile, “That is an understatement.”

“It’s not fair if she only has to get used to them, after all. We’re not trying to change her.” Leliana leans her hip against Josephine’s desk. They can hear Lavellan’s voice start to echo from where she’s wandered down the stairs towards the cellar, the dignitary’s baffled and cut-off protest-questions just barely managing to get a word in edgewise around Lavellan’s own stream of words.

If she were just a little more focused, Leliana thinks she could be an excellent bard. She has a lovely voice and she does use it so well.

Now that she thinks about it, Lavellan almost reminds her of Alistair.

Hm. Now there’s a thought – it would be fun to put them together in the same room – how would _that_ go, she wonders.

About an hour later the door to Josephine’s office opens – Josephine and Leliana sketching short bows as Lavellan trots in with a dazed, and somewhat ruffled looking, dignitary coming in behind her.

“And that is why you never try to drink with Skinner on an empty stomach and never, ever take Grim’s advice on cards, he’s really bad at it.” Lavellan concludes. “Hello. I am here.”

“Yes,” Josephine stands up, ushering the dazed man into a seat. “Thank you Inquisitor, I’ll take it from here.”

Lavellan rocks on her heels before flashing a smile and wandering back out, Leliana shakes her head at Lavellan’s back.

She really needs to put her in the same room as Alistair.

Surana and Zevran would be delighted to watch, she’s sure. Now _there’s_ a thought.

-

“Now isn’t this cozy.” Leliana says when she finds Lavellan sitting at the rickety chair on the other side of the Commander’s desk, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she writes something. Her writing has improved in leaps and bounds, but it takes all of her concentration to finish a letter.

“I’m helping Cullen write a letter to his sister.” Lavellan says, “Can you believe that she thought he died _three times_? That’s silly. Cullen can’t die. He’s the _Commander_.” Lavellan frowns at the letter.

Cullen rarely ever actually sits at his desk so much as he stands over it. Leliana adjusts a teetering pile at the edge – mindful of the acorns.

“Is that so?”

Cullen shoots her a baleful look, mouthing _help me_.

Leliana just smiles and leans over Lavellan’s shoulder to read what she has written so far.

“Are you writing the letter or is he?”

“I have the pen.”

“Are you writing for him?”

“No. I am writing for me because Cullen doesn’t know what to say. Which is silly.” Lavellan says, proudly holding the letter up for Leliana. “He should say that he loves her and misses her and that of course he isn’t dead, if he died then there’d be no one to lead the Inquisiton’s army and help the Inquisitor take care of puppies when nobody’s looking except for the spymaster’s spies.”

Leliana reads over the letter, and her writing really has improved, though it’s shaky and crooked. Josephine will be very pleased.

At the very least, Lavellan has gotten _very_ good at forging signatures.

(“It’s like drawing,” Lavellan says, proud as she repeats Josephine’s signature on all the places Josephine has marked with surreptitious little x’s, “I’m really good at drawing.”)

“If I don’t write my sister soon I fear she’s going to come to Skyhold, babe strapped to her back and a child in each arm.” Cullen says. “Though I’m not sure that this letter is going to dissuade her any. If anything, she might come to take a strip out of me for being improper to a lady.”

“Yes, I see how it can be misread. Inquisitor, it’s not considered – ah, acceptable to enter another person’s room at odd hours and get into bed with them unless you are in a relationship.”

“Cullen is my Commander, and I’m his boss. He’s also my friend.” Lavellan says. “Besides, he has a hole in his roof, someone has to make sure he doesn’t freeze in his sleep, and we’re not allowed to bring puppies in anymore.” Lavellan shoots Cullen a dirty look. “Someone keeps telling Cole _no_.”

“They might _fall_.” Cullen protests.

“And we keep telling you they _wouldn’t_.” Lavellan frowns. “I’m going to write that down. You keep denying the puppies a place to sleep.”

Leliana is fairly certain that someone is going to have to make extreme edits to the letter Lavellan is writing.

“Not that sort of relationship. Mia is going to assume you and her brother are lovers.” Leliana says. “And you are – quite young.”

Lavellan makes a face. “That’s _silly_. I sleep in _everyone’s_ rooms. Even Vivienne’s that one time but I only fell asleep on accident, it just _took so long_ for them to finish adjusting that dress. I couldn’t help it.”

That was particularly amusing.

(“I’ve never met someone who could fall asleep standing, before.” Vivienne says, as Lavellan’s chin dips against her chest, “This is quite amusing. I don’t even think I shall be upset with her manners over this.”)

Cullen sighs, Leliana continues reading.

“You probably shouldn’t mention Cole, either. He makes people nervous.”

“But Cole’s the best part of my letter!”

“Do I get any say at all in what goes into this letter?”

Lavellan turns to him and jabs the quill at his face, “Are you going to say that you love her, are terribly sorry for not writing sooner, and that you think that she should go with the cornflower blue over that ghastly shade of purple that would go just awfully with her hair?”

Leliana wonders just how much of Mia’s letters Lavellan’s been reading on the sly and if she can get her hands on them, too.

“Where’s Dorian? He’s better at writing than I am.” Lavellan says, standing up. “You wait here. I’m getting Dorian. Together, I’m sure the three of us can write a wonderful letter.”

“I feel like you’re taking something out on me.” Cullen says to her retreating back. “She’s taking something out on me, isn’t she?”

“Well it’s not like she can write home, now can she?” Leliana says. “But she can write to _your_ home. Also, she’s right. If your sister has coloring anything like yours she’d look dreadful in purple.”


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a crock of shit.” Sera mutters. Lavellan laughs, but doesn’t exactly disagree.

“You insulted her in _five different languages_.”

“I wanted to make sure she understood me!”

“By calling her the offspring of swine and maggot infested cheese?”

“Fly _swarmed_ cheese.” Lavellan corrects.

“Extra points on creativity, by the way.” Varric says, Lavellan turns to him, beaming.

“You think so? Thank you!”

“I’m going to have to use that bit in a book. Don’t know where or when, but I will.” Varric says. “How come you don’t swear like that normally?”

“Swears are _serious_ , Varric.” Lavellan says. “I have to make sure people understand me when I say it. Besides when you swear all the time it loses effect. I mean – no one ever pays attention when Sera swears, but when I do you all stopped to listen. It’s _effective_.”

“It was _something_.”

“Did you _have to_?” Josephine says, still a little dazed from the rounds of particular swearing and cursing that Lavellan threw out at the top of her lungs a few minutes ago. “I – _did you absolutely have to?”_

“Well I wouldn’t have if it _wasn’t_ , Josephine.” Lavellan replies. “You don’t swear at people unless you _mean it_. That’s why you make sure to do it in a language they understand and make it as clear as possible.”

“You couldn’t have waited to insult the dowager in _private_?”

“Well, no. I wanted her to know.” Lavellan says. “It’s important to let people know what you think of them if they want something from you. For example, she’s a bottom-feeding leech composed of – “

“I think we heard you the first time.”

“Good. It kind of hurt to yell it that loudly, actually. May I have some water?”

-

Lavellan goes down with a loud yelp that Dorian will forever deny as being absurdly cute – no one yelps cutely. No one. He refuses to give Lavellan this. He is not giving her more amazing qualities than she already has. Not the ridiculous ones, the ones no one should have.

Things like making sneezes cute. Things like making the outdoors seem exciting and adventurous. Things like turning into a flesh and bone knot.

Things no sane creature on Thedas should be able to do.

She goes down hard, with a loud and high pitched yelp – arms thrown into the air as she falls down a steep and damp embankment getting hit by a stray blast by a wisp.

Dorian takes a moment to hope that she didn’t fall onto a rock and crack her head or straight into a stream.

He can tell that Blackwall and Sera are thinking about it, too, because Blackwall angles himself in her general direction and Sera cocks her head towards the direction of the yelp, waiting for further signs.

Dorian throws up a barrier and yells in her direction -

“Alive? Injured? Enjoying the view? Stopping for a light snack of dandelions?”

A few seconds later the sound of grass, Lavellan’s scrambling - “It’s _slippery!”_ She yells, sounding insulted. “I can’t get up!”

“Sera!” Blackwall yells.

“On it!” Sera replies as Dorian casts another barrier. “I knew that rope would come in handy, yeah.”

“Rope you made out of people’s pants.”

“What else was I supposed to do with those breeches? No one else wanted them.” Sera flings out a rope down the bank, planting her weight on some stones. “Come on, up we go.”

Dorian focuses on keeping the demons distracted – paying idle attention to the sounds of swearing at the, he supposes, rough going of Lavellan getting back up the slope.

A bolt of lightning crackles overhead and strikes three wisps in a row -

“Ah, back to the land of the living, I see. So kind of you to join us.” Dorian says.

“I didn’t mean to fall down in the first place.” Lavellan protests.

“Are you uninjured my lady?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Blackwall.” Lavellan clambers onto a rock and casts a static cage. “I like how Blackwall asks the important questions.”

“Let’s not forget the important question of _when are you closing this rift?”_ Sera yells. “I’m gonna run out of arrows!”

-

“I can’t believe half of Skyhold is down with the cold and you’re prancing about in the snow without shoes.” Sera yells out of her window, voice cracking.

“Shem weaklings!” Lavellan yells back as she bounces around the snow, laughing at the tracks she makes. “This is so _fun_.”

“I can’t wait for you to get sick.”

“You cried last time I got sick.”

“That was a different sort of sick. Bog-sick. Not frolicking-in-the-snow-sick.” Sera coughs. “Ugh.”

“Stop yelling, you’ll make yourself worse.” Flyssa yells from the bar floor.

“Make her come inside, then.” Sera throws a glare at Lavellan who sticks out her tongue. Sera closes the window with a huff. “Fucking prancing wildlife princess.”

A snowball hits the window a few seconds later.

Sera glares at the window.

A few minutes later Lavellan bursts into Sera’s room, rosy-faced and bright eyed, but before Sera can yell at her to get out Lavellan holds up some steaming bowls of something.

“Don’t look so sour.” Lavellan says, placing the tray down next to her. Sera peers into the mugs, seems some kind of thing – don’t know, looks like mush.

“What’s that? You gon’ poison me now?”

“Just eat it.” Lavellan says, pushing the mug in her face. “I made it for you. It’s delicious, I promise you’ll love it.”

“You say that about a lot of shit and here we are in the middle of the fucking mountains.” Sera answers, sniffing it. Not that it makes a difference. Sera can’t smell shite from those fancy little candles Josephine burns.

The mug is warm, though. Sera lifts it up to her mouth and takes a tentative sip.

It’s warm, and whatever it is – tastes good. Feels mushy. Kind of like fruit. Chewy. Some kind of grain. A little sticky, too. But good. Solid. Better than that broth stuff they’ve been giving all the sick people. Sera hopes that she doesn’t end up vomiting it. It’s been ages since she had something solid and good in her stomach.

“See?” Lavellan says, humming as she drinks her from her own mug. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

“Yeah. Whatever. This is fine. Still don’t trust you about the other stuff.”

“Oh you say that now.” Lavellan says, eyes dancing at Sera over the rim of her mug, “But I’ll show you the light.” Lavellan wiggles the anchor at Sera’s face, snorting.

“You’re a crock of shit.” Sera mutters. Lavellan laughs, but doesn’t exactly disagree.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He says I’m making great progress and that my left hook is really good for someone as small as I am.” Lavellan says, “My left hand is the one I use to tenderize meat with the clan.”

“Do I even want to know what’s happened?” Cullen asks, eyes flickering over Lavellan’s face and arms.

“Bull says I should learn to fight better.” Lavellan replies, “Also I should stop biting because it’s not sanitary and no one wants me to go down because I put something in my mouth that isn’t good. Which is silly because I know what I shouldn’t put into my mouth. I’m _Dalish_ , we grow up putting things in our mouths all the time! Which is also weird because everyone worries whenever I eat dandelions but everyone knows that they’re just fine.”

Half the people who meet them think that they’re starving the girl because she eats weeds and things she picks up off the ground. Cullen is pretty sure half the people who join up are actually here to make sure that the Inquisitor isn’t being held prisoner and blinking in coded messages for help. He’s been given the side-eye by a startling amount of kitchen and cleaning staff.

“You look like you got beaten.”

“He says I’m making great progress and that my left hook is really good for someone as small as I am.” Lavellan says, “My left hand is the one I use to tenderize meat with the clan.”

Cullen wonders if maybe the anchor mark is also adding to that.

“You – did the Bull throw you around a training ring until you punched back?”

“No, Skinner did. I have to work my way up to Bull. I already got past Rocky.” Lavellan replies, chest comically puffing out a bit as she preens. Cullen wonders if this is her rebellious stage, then resists the urge to rub his hand over his face. She isn’t a child, she’s the _Inquisitor_ and he really shouldn’t be feeling like an exasperated sibling or parent right now. He didn’t even feel this way with his own siblings.

“Could you – try to avoid being hit in the face?” Cullen asks because he knows it’s futile to even try to tell her to stop completely. Bull isn’t wrong, either.

“I could. But Bull says I get distracted too easily so I gotta learn.” Lavellan says, humming.

“And getting hit in the face?”

“Nothing makes you learn faster than avoiding a head shot.”

“I – “ Cullen sighs because it’s _true_. “Alright. Just – please try?”

“Of course. It’s not _fun_ you know.” Lavellan says rolling her eyes. “I mean – it’s fun learning, it’s not fun getting actually hit.”

-

“Last I checked, Lavellan and Cole were holding hands and flicking peanut shells off of the tower and feeding the nuts to a few of Leliana’s birds.” Varric says.

“Leliana lets her play with the birds?” Cassandra blinks, tilting her head upwards.

“She has a soft spot for the Inquisitor. Most of us do.”  Varric points out.

“Don’t look at me like that, _dwarf_.” Cassandra says, scanning the battlements until she finds the scouts that tend to cluster in the general area of the Inquisitor.

“Just saying that I’m pretty sure there’s no one impervious to Poppy’s particular brand of crazy. Heroes are kind of charismatic like that. That’s how you know they’re the heroes.” Varric says. “I would know, I’ve written enough stories.”

Cassandra closes her eyes and thinks of all the heroes she’s ever read and known, the heroes that have sprung up like magic – providence – in just the last _decade_ or so alone.

Heroes are not the things of stories, any longer.

Thedas is bursting with them.

It makes Cassandra nervous. Each hero, triumphing over something greater than the others. What happens after this? What can be greater than this?

They have already endured so much.

What is the Maker’s plan? Why has he tested them so much? What answer does the Maker seek?

“And now you’re looking sour. Come on, Seeker, if you keep looking so upset every time you’re near me people’ll start thinking I’m terrible company.”

“You are terrible company.” Cassandra snaps, glancing down at him. Pausing. “But – for what it is worth. I am.” Cassandra takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I apologize for my violent actions towards you. I should not have resorted to violence, regardless of my own emotions.”

When Cassandra opens her eyes and chances a look Varric looks like she just smacked him with a herring. An expression she is familiar with, as she has seen Lavellan smack him with one before. On accident, of course. Or perhaps not, now that Cassandra thinks on it.

“Did you just apologize?”

“Yes.” Cassandra takes in another breath and lets it out through her nose. “No. I am not going to repeat myself.”

Varric gets on that shit-eating grin that makes her instinctively want to curl her fist and snarl.

“Punch me, I think I’m having one of those things that you surfacers call _dreams_.”

Cassandra bares her teeth, “Don’t tempt me, dwarf.”

-

“Da’len.” Solas leans over her. There’s a look of unusually focused determination on her face. It is a strange mix of solemn, longing, and love. Solas does not think he has ever seen that look on her before. It is a look that makes her look older, yet softer.

“Hahren.” She replies, arms curling around the paper as her lips purse together, brows drawing together in concentration as she draws. Each motion careful and slow.

“May I ask?” Solas asks, because he knows that as tolerant as she is of questions, and as many questions as she throws at others, there are times when she does not so receptive. He feels like now might be one of those times.

Even Lavellan, gentle spirited and young as she is, has the lines she does not permit others to cross.

They are buried deep and hidden, like trip-wires. When crossed she reacts like a viper. Sharp. Quick and venomous, cutting others where they were not aware there was danger. A viper-wound and a cauterized strike at once. A warning, pain to discourage, then a soft rebuking close to make sure it does not happen again.

She is dangerous in all the ways people forget until it is in their faces.

There is strength in her. Solas finds himself glad for that. There were times in the beginning he worried.

She is young. She was naive and curious. He has learned that she is more.

The world will know, soon.

Lavellan’s arms slowly open, unfolding to reveal the paper. Well worn and carefully worked over. There is green colored pencil in her hand. There is a carefully drawn pattern of _vallaslin_ on the page -

“My mother was June’s.” Solas holds back the flinch as Lavellan lovingly touches her finger over the curve of the vallaslin. “I learned the marks. Because I was going to be the Keeper. Someday I would be the one drawing the vallaslin.” Lavellan’s fingers hover over the page. “I learned hers first. Because – because I saw her face every day. You know.”

“They are beautiful.” Solas replies. Because they were beautiful. It flattered their pride to have such beautiful marks for _them_. There was no point in _ugly slaves_.

“Da’s is harder.” She says, “I can get it right, sometimes. But not all the time. He had Falon’din. I wasn’t very good at the thin lines. I couldn’t get the endings to taper right. It was more luck, really.”

Solas’ lips twitch upwards.

Lavellan puts her cheek down on the table, spreading her fingers – light – over the paper. She hums, eyes closing, tracing her thumb over the pattern that would go over the cheekbone.

Solas touches her shoulder with his fingertips. “She would be proud of you, da’len.”

“I hope so.” Lavellan says. “I like to think so, hahren.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don't mean that." Bull says, firm but gentle. "Maybe you do now, but later you won't."

In the end, Bull has to pick her up - hand, arm, around her tiny little waist, feels like picking up an empty sack, or maybe a sack of squirming cat - and physically hold her back as she claws her way out of his grip. She digs her teeth and nails into his skin -  
  
"Feels like a whole lotta nothing." Bull shrugs. "Thick skin. I'm fine. Focus on the boss."  
  
\- kicking and cursing him out, and trying to fight her way out of his arms.  
  
And this is how she enters the stage of anger.  
  
"Fuck this _shit_." She screams. "Fuck it. Fuck _you_. Fuck Wycome. They want a _Dalish plague?_ I'll _give_ them a Dalish plague."  
  
"You don't mean that, Poppy." Varric says as Solas guides her hart back to the stables, sadness in both their eyes. "There were good people in Wycome, too."  
  
"And what a lot of good those pieces of shem _filth_ did." She snarls, spits at the ground by his feet. "Fucking shems. Quick-blooded _monsters_."  
  
"You don't mean that." Dorian says, catching her hands, not letting go even when she digs her teeth into the leather over the knuckles of his hand. "You don't mean that."  
  
"I do. I really, _really_ do." She snarls, "Let me go!"  
  
"Not until you've calmed down." Bull says. "Or at least, agree to not go marching off to Wycome by yourself."  
  
"I wouldn't have been alone." She snaps. "I'd have picked people up along the way."  
  
"What people?"  
  
She flashes her teeth in Varric's direction before returning to her attempts at breaking Bull's hold.  
  
" _My_ people."  
  
Dorian squeezes here hands, wincing a bit when she gives him a shock. He quietly casts a barrier over himself and Bull, then one over Varric as well. He can see Krem and the other Chargers forming a perimeter, ushering people on their way. He hears Cullen bellow from somewhere higher up - "Back to your posts, all of you!"  
  
He squeezes her hands in his.  
  
"Let me go _shem_." She snaps, "Let me go!"  
  
"No." Dorian says, and she looks him in the eye and curses. She once said that she only cursed at people in languages they knew, so they'd know exactly what she  meant.  
  
So Dorian stands there and looks her straight in the face as she slings insults at him in a painful and guttural mix of elven and Tevene, her voice cracking like the lightning that sparks out of her hands and over her skin.  
  
By the end of it she's red and shaking, and her jaw is clenched but she's not fighting anymore. Bull doesn't let her go, but he does cradle her close. Dorian squeezes her hands.  
  
"Fucking shems." She whispers, eyes closed - shaking. She's shaking. Her hands are still in his and he can feel them clenching. "Fucking shems. Dirth ma, _da'len_ , dirth ma. Shouldn't have trusted the fuckin' shems. Dread Wolf take them. Take them all. I hope they are hit by a real fucking plague."  
  
"You don't mean that." Bull says, firm but gentle. "Maybe you do now, but later you won't."  
  
"Dirth ma. Emma shem'nan, shemlin." She repeats, tucking her face against Bull's chest where no one can see. Her voice is so hard, angry and cold and threatening to shake apart into a snarl-growl-snap. " _Dirth ma_."  
  
-  
  
"I bet you can transform into a halla." Sera says.  
  
"Maybe I can, maybe I can't." Lavellan replies. "It's sacred Keeper magic, anyway. Who says I'd show you?"  
  
"Why bring it up if you aren't gonna?"  
  
"I _didn't_. You were eavesdropping on me and Dalish."  
  
"Yeah, because you were talkin' weird, being all secretive and shit, and I wanted to know why." Sera says, "Didn't think you'd be talking about turning into animals and stuff. Does Viv know you can do that? What about Dorian?"  
  
"Of course not. I've only told _Dalish_. And then you overheard." Lavellan sniffs. "Why would I tell them? It's not _Circle_ magic."  
  
"Yeah, no, I figured. I mean, if they taught that in Circles, they'd just fuck off as birds." Sera rolls her eyes. "But seriously. Can you turn into a halla?"  
  
" _Seriously_ , I'm not saying." Lavellan replies.  
  
"Well now I'm gonna just keep guessing."  
  
"I'm not going to confirm or deny either way."  
  
"I'll get Bull to read you for me."  
  
"I'll tell Bull to lie." Lavellan retorts. "Besides, I don't use it in battle anyway. What's it matter? You'll never see me do it."  
  
"Because I wanna know." Sera replies. "Come on, give me something."  
  
"You just want to find teasing material. Or something to make a rumor out of."  
  
"Yeah, maybe. Why, you got something good?"  
  
-  
  
Cullen swears that his desk is strangely warm and soft and maybe that's a sign that he's totally losing it. His mouth tastes absolutely wretched, his head feels like it just got hit with one of Bull's shield bashes, and the rest of him isn't doing any better.  
  
But there are fingers, small hands, carding through his hair and he thinks he hears a soft hum - not lyrium. No, this is too low, too calm to be lyrium.  
  
It takes longer than it should, and it's much harder than he thinks it should be, to open one eye. But it's worth it because he quickly figures out that he is not sleeping on his desk. No. His head is in the Inquisitor's lap, he's lying down on the floor of his office, and there is a puppy  in his face. A mabari puppy.  
  
He's woken up to worse.  
  
The humming stops when the pup gives out a short, high pitched bark that makes space between Cullen's eyes throb. He hears her shush the puppy, who whines, dropping down onto his paws and gives her a mournful look.  
  
"He's _sleeping_." Lavellan whispers, and no. He isn't, but he'd really _like_ to be.  
  
Cullen attempts to tell her that he's awake, but his mouth isn't cooperating and it takes a small eternity for him to figure out how to get his lips to part.  
  
In the mean time, Lavellan has returned to her humming, running her hands through his hair.  
  
"He hasn't been sleeping." She continues in a low whisper, earning a comically concerned head-tilt from the puppy, who is really - at this stage of development - just a brown bag of _wrinkles_. Adorable wrinkles, yes. But wrinkles with eyes. For some reason this feels a little like blasphemy or betraying his country. Cullen has no idea _why_ he thinks that. "Cassandra says that it gives him nightmares. Cole says that he's tried to make it better, but at a certain point he has to let Cullen deal with it himself. Which is good, I think. Facing your demons. I don't think Cullen would want to forget everything. Parts, maybe, but not all of it. It makes him stronger. Those memories are parts of him. The parts that make him fight so hard for the rest of us. The parts that prove he's still alive."  
  
The pup worms around and then attempts to shove itself under her knee, nose first.  
  
"I wish we could make it easier, though." Lavellan says. "Dreamless draughts can be addicting though, and I don't want to substitute one for the other. Dream walking is invasive. I don't know if he'd want to talk to me about it. Maybe Dorian? They're friends, I think. Cassandra? I'm fairly certain that they're friends."  
  
Yes, Cullen wants to say. They're friends.  
  
Lavellan returns to her humming. Cullen resumes trying to figure out how his mouth works when the east-side door eases open.  
  
"Still sleeping?" Bull's voice is low, quiet.  
  
"Yes." Lavellan says.  
  
No, Cullen tries to say. He wonders how many people walked in on this and how badly it looks. Maker's _breath_ -  
  
"Did you redirect everyone?" She asks.  
  
"Yeah. Got them all going to the others for the rest of the day. He really could use the sleep. Fought like shit in the last spar."  
  
He did not.  
  
"His face is terrible." Lavellan adds on. "I'm told it's damaging to our reputation."  
  
His face does not look terrible. It's an _average_ face, ignoring the scar -  
  
"Yeah, well. Not sleeping does that to you. You want me to get you anything? You sure you dont want to move him?"  
  
"I don't want to wake him." She says, and he wonders how long he's been here, exactly. "I'll be fine here. I have company."  
  
The mabari pup yaps, jumping up on its little paws.  
  
"Shh!"  
  
The puppy whines and returns to attempting to shove its nose under her leg.  
  
Cullen gives up trying to talk and lets sleep pull him back under.  
  
He supposes he might as well enjoy the quiet while it lasts.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan sniffles and smacks her hand against his knee. “It’s like you want me to be miserable.”

“Why are you carrying a chicken?”

“Because Cole asked me to hold her.” Lavellan replies, “Would you also like to hold the chicken?”

“No. I’m good.” Krem says, and it says something about her that nobody is asking her to take the chicken outside. It says something about Skyhold that the Inquisitor can carry random animals in and out of buildings, buildings said animals shouldn’t be, and make it look normal. “Why did Cole ask you to hold a chicken?”

Said chicken looks pretty damn mean, and a few seconds away from springing out of the Herald’s arms and taking out one of Krem’s eyes.

“He said that she wasn’t making friends.” Lavellan says, “So I’m making friends with her while Cole explains to the other chickens why they have to be nice.”

The chicken’s breast puffs up, dangerously. Krem edges back and closer to Lavellan’s side. The chicken makes an ominous clucking noise and turns to keep Krem in her line of sight.

Lavellan idly pets the chicken’s back.

“We don’t have chickens among the Dalish.” She says. “She’s so _soft_.”

“Yeah.” Krem says. “Why are you bringing the chicken into the blacksmith’s?”

“Because Cassandra wanted me to watch them craft swords. She says I should know bits of how things work.” Lavellan says. “And I think she likes the sounds. She’s very calm, now.”

If this is calm, Krem really doesn’t want to know what she was like before hand.

He’s never seen a chicken look so _murderous_.

“You shown her to the chief yet?” Krem asks, because he has to, and because he _needs to_. “He’s good friends with animals. Since he’s a giant ox and all.”

Lavellan hums. “He did make very good friends with the dracolisk.”

She beams at him, holding the chicken to her breast, “I’ll go show him! That’s a wonderful idea, Krem, thank you!”

Lavellan darts out and snatches his hand, gently laying an egg in his palm before sprinting off in the direction of the Tavern.

Krem stares at the egg in his hand and sighs.

“Well. That went well.”

-

“I really think you should reconsider – “ Cullen tries, and fails, to catch Lavellan’s attention as she dodges him, by climbing up a tree. “Must you? Those aren’t – those trees aren’t meant for climbing. Please come down before you get hurt.”

“I’m going to the mages of Redcliffe and that’s that.” Lavellan declares. He can see a glimpse of her bare feet swinging – and he still doesn’t know how she’s managed walking around Haven _bare foot_ this entire time without frostbite. “You can’t change my mind. It’s important to Dorian.”

Cullen hasn’t actually met this _Dorian_ she keeps talking about, and if it weren’t for the fact that Cassandra, Varric, and Blackwall were along to confirm his existence, he’d think she was making him up.

A Tevinter mage with time travel magic, who apparently started beating demons with his staff – physically – when he ran out of mana. And was also charming and fun to talk to. Though that last bit was tacked on by Lavellan, and only slightly agreed to by Varric. And knowing Varric, he could be lying just to mess with Cullen’s head.

“It’s dangerous.”

“There’s a hole in the sky. Everything is dangerous.”

Her reasoning terrifies him sometimes.

“Herald – “

“I’m not the Herald of Andraste.” She calls down. Cullen sighs.

“Lavellan. I am asking you to at least think on the possibility of seeking out the templars.” Cullen says, worry tugging at the back of his mind. “Please.”

Another flash of Lavellan’s bare heel.

“I can’t just turn them away, _now_. They’re in the hands of a _Tevinter magister_.” She replies, and there’s a soft crackle of the anchor mark flaring. She yelps. “I think the mark doesn’t like that and wants me to fix it.”

Cullen thinks that she’s been using her mark as an excuse to run away from Madame de Fer and Leliana, and now Cullen.

“Lavellan.”

“Oh, _come on_ , Cullen.” She drops down a few branches, each time she descends onto a new branch, Cullen’s muscles clench because each branch creaks rather loudly underneath her. “Please don’t make a thing out of this. Please? I can’t just – they’re slaves! _To a Tevinter magister!”_

She looks at him with large eyes and -

“You can’t expect me to leave them to that, can you? There are _children_.” She continues, eyes widening some more, “ _Children_.”

Cullen feels himself surrendering because – yes. He understands that. It’s hard to, but he does.

“I understand.” Cullen sighs, shoulders slumping. “I will cease to bother you on this matter.”

-

Lavellan’s eyes are watery and red, like her nose, and there’s a noticeable droop to her shoulders as Bull gathers her up and carries her back to camp. She’s limp in his arms, and she sniffles every few seconds, eyes tearing up.

“I hate it here.” She whines, listlessly kicking her dangling foot.

“And here I thought you elves loved grass.” Bull teases, effortlessly tucking her into the crook of one arm and catching her foot with his free hand. “Come on, boss. We’re not getting anything done until that tea from Skyhold gets here.”

“I don’t like this grass.” Lavellan mourns, rubbing her face on her sleeve, sniffling. “It feels bad. And you’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

“Nope.” Bull replies, squeezing her foot and setting her down on a log by the hearth. “Your face is really, _really_ red, Boss. Worse than the time you forgot to let Solas put that cream on your face when you went to the Approach.”

Lavellan whines, curling up on her side, sulking like there’s no tomorrow.

“I wanted to see the runes.” She mumbled,  swiping at her nose, “This is stupid. How was I supposed to know I was allergic? This grass isn’t the same kind as the one in the Free Marches.” Lavellan wrinkles her nose, lets out a sharp sneeze. Bull crouches down next to her, coaxing her into sitting back up again.

“Come on, boss. Up you go. Your nose’ll feel worse lying down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She whines, but sits up anyway. “I hate grass. The Exalted Plains is supposed to be the home of my ancestors. I don’t know how we survived here if the grass was this awful.”

“Or maybe it’s just you.” Bull points out. Lavellan shoots him a dirty look. It’d be more affective if her eyes weren’t so watery and her nose wasn’t so red. Bull thinks it’s kind of cute.  Makes him think of a tiny rabbit, with her twitching nose and watering wide eyes and stuff. If he said it out loud, she’d probably try to set him on fire, though. Bull pulls her hair out of her face, gently holding it back as she scrubs at her eyes.

Lavellan kicks her heel at the ground, sulking. “You’re laughing at me on the inside, I can tell.”

“More at how red your nose is, boss.” Bull admits. “It’s kind of funny, boss. An elf who’s allergic to grass. Sera’s going to get a kick out of this when I tell her.”

Lavellan sniffles and smacks her hand against his knee. “It’s like you want me to be miserable.”

Bull laughs. “No, just keeping you level, Boss.”


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cole, what are you doing?” He’s not upset, he’s curious, but he’s on the edge, edging, edged.

“Is there – there’s something different about you, today, isn’t there? Is that make up? Kohl? I thought _I_ was the only one allowed to be unrealistically dramatic on a daily basis.” Dorian says, leaning in close to peer at her. Lavellan blinks at him, squinting for a bit before widening her eyes again.

“My eyes feel _funny_.” She says, “Heavy. How do you deal with this all the time? I’m scared it’s going to get into my eye.”

“You get used to it.” Dorian replies, fingers tilting her head in the poor lightning of the library. “Did Vivienne do this? Or Leliana?”

“Josephine.” She replies, “We had a sleepover. I liked it. Her room smells like sugar. She pillows are yellow and there’s pretty lace on them. And in the morning I watched her put on her make up and she offered to teach me, but I said no, but I’d like to try anyway and she put the liner on my eyes and it feels weird and I look weird, but I think I like it. Also last night we talked for hours and she taught me how to wine taste and I think I understand the difference, now. Also Josephine got one of Cassandra’s books and we were reading it and it was nice and there was candy.”

Dorian’s lips quirk upwards - “Did you two actually sleep at this sleep over?”

“Yes!” Lavellan says, digging her finger into Dorian’s shoulder. “I’ve never had a sleep over like that before. Back at the clan we just sleep. It’s not nearly that much fun. Also I really like her room. It smells really nice. Josephine is my new favorite.”

“That really means nothing when we all know that I am you true favorite snob.”

“You’re not a snob, your an altus.” Lavellan replies, stealing Dorian’s chair, “You don’t get to be a snob until you’re a magister and have your evil laugh.”

“Good to know, good to know.” Dorian replies, lips quirking up, “Tell me, did  Josephine actually tell you how to take that _off_ , though?”

Lavellan wrinkles her nose at him. “Don’t I just use water?”

Dorian sighs, “Oh, you poor, misguided, elven savage. No. You’re going to make a mess of your own face. Come to mine before you go to sleep, I’ll take it off for you.”

“Can we have a sleep over?”

“Sure. But we are going to sleep at one point. I need my beauty rest.” Dorian replies, “Now go do your Inquisitor things and what-not. Your beauty will draw too many people to my quiet corner and I won’t be able to work at all.”

Lavellan rolls her eyes. “You’re so silly, Dorian, if anyone’s beauty is too stunning it’s _yours_.”

-

“Cole, what are you doing?” He’s not upset, he’s curious, but he’s on the edge, edging, edged.

“She needs hair.” Cole replies, “She’s been waiting because she knows you have it and you shave it off, but she can never catch you before you do and she thinks you do it in secret so she’s been trying to catch you but you never let yourself be caught and it’s hard for her. She _needs it_.”

Keep them safe.

“Lavellan?” Pride, ancient and strong and powerful and a _lie_ , he thinks he is proud but he is not.  Pride goeth before the fall and he has already fallen, his pride is gone, but he does not understand that. And Cole wants to tell him but he does not want to be told, it just makes him hurt _more_. “What for?”

“To keep you safe.”

She weaves them close, in the dark, with eyes that catch the light of moons and stars, under her breath. Close to her chest, with her own. Cuts of black in the night, hidden in the daylight carefully. Timed and calculated close to fights where she can pretend that it was an enemy who took inches off her hair instead of her own dagger. She weaves them close, the strongest magic she knows. Keeper magic, to keep them, to keep them _safe_. To _keep them alive_.

She couldn’t do it before, but she’s going to put everything into it now.

Her and you, her and me.

Cole touches the back of his neck where she gently took the hair from him, quietly when he offers, not the same as when Dorian wanted to cut. It is another type of love and she needed it, needed him, needed this.

For her, for him, for them.

He offers his neck and she takes it like a ceremony and she kisses the skin there – it tingles and her nose pushes against his skin and she whispers words and he watches as she braids him, her, together.

(“We are like this.” Cole says, touching his finger to his hair, her hair, their hair. “We are always like this. Because we are friends.”

“Yes.” She says, curling her fingers around it as she holds it between them. A single pinprick of her blood that is not blood magic, but a promise, a devotion. “We’re family.”

“Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. You will never surrender.”

“Never.” Her eyes are bright like the Fade and she curls her hand around his and squeezes tight. Holds him and makes him _present_. “I won’t let you go, Cole. I won’t.”)

Solas watches him with old eyes, ancient eyes, eyes that love and lose and lost and are afraid because it hurts to love and lose.

“She has hair from everyone.” Cole says, because he helped. A small clip off of Sera’s bangs in the night when Sera sleeps, a nick off of the Bull’s beard. A small, small shaving from Vivienne. A strand from Krem. A lock from Cullen. Thin strands given by Dorian freely when she asks. A lock left on her pillow by Leliana, understanding and quiet. Already aware. Knowing.

Everyone but hahren.

Desperate, getting nervous. She has all of them but him, and she fears losing him most because she knows. She knows that he will leave and she is afraid because she feels him slipping through her fingers and she has lost so many hahren already, she does not want to lose him too. Don’t let him die, don’t let any of them die. Don’t let Pride go before my Fall.

Solas looks at him with quiet eyes.

“She needs it.” Cole repeats. “She’s been trying to find a way to get it.”

She presses the small shaving from Vivienne between flower petals and carefully twines it into string that she weaves with her own hair. She winds Krem’s single strand into her own, buried deep with ribbon, too.

Solas closes his eyes, and holds out his hand. “Your dagger, Cole.”

Cole hands it to him and waits.

He watches as Solas cuts a shaving off of the jaw around his neck, slowly and solemn and staid and steady.

“This will work.” He says. It is and is not a lie. “It will serve its purpose.”

Not her purpose, Cole thinks. Your purpose.

But it isn’t meant to hurt, he thinks.

So he takes it in his palm, small and black and blackened.

“She loves you.” Because he needs to know that he is loved even though he thinks that he is not meant for it anymore. Undeserving. Only she can decide and she chose me, she chose you, she chooses us and holds us close whether we like it or not.

She will keep us. She Keeps us. She is our Keeper.

“I know.” Solas replies, “Watch over her, Cole.”

“You, too.” I say. “I will.”


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian squints at her, “Well, now you’re pulling my leg for sure.”

Bull is fairly sure he wouldn’t have caught her if Solas wasn’t broadcasting at him. He’s pretty sure there’s more to the mage than meets the eye – the guy is _too good_. Too clean. Careful. Smart. He’s almost worried that he’s the one behind all this, pulling Lavellan’s strings. She’s just a kid, and while he doesn’t want to say it, she _is_ the type to be easily led.

Either way, Solas is broadcasting – doesn’t know if that’s meant just for him, or if it’s meant for the rest of them in general, hard to tell – and Bull ends up following him a couple dozen paces back. Solas walks by a snowdrift and drops a something on it. Can’t see from here – but Bull squints and he thinks he sees a pair of laughing eyes blinking out of the snow before disappearing.

Bull waits until Solas is gone before approaching, casually sitting by the snowdrift.

He can’t hear anything, and the snowdrift looks normal, but -

He moves fast, reaching in – fingers curling around something warm, thin, small -

A high pitched yelp -

And Bull lets go.

He feels his lips twitching up and a moment later those eyes from earlier are peering out of him from the hole his arm made.

“You scared me.” Lavellan says, nose crinkled as she sticks her head out of the hole. “You could’ve warned me.”

“Sure.” Bull replies, “I’ll warn you next time if you tell me why you’re in a snowdrift. You alright, boss? You aren’t wearing all that much to be buried in snow.”

“Hahren has been dropping of tea.” She says, holding up a flask. “And it’s not _that_ cold. And I’ve been eating the snow so it’s fine.”

Bull raises an eyebrow – eating snow. Smart. Funny. Not much snow in the Free Marches. Where’d she pick that up?

Lavellan wiggles her upper body out of the snowdrift, leaning her chin on her folded arms as she stares up at him.

“You found me.” She says.

“Yup.” Bull replies. “Why’re you in the snowdrift.”

“Because I wanted to know what it was like inside of the snowdrift.” She replies, easy and sincere and simple in all the ways that _should_ tip him off to something weird, but on her it just reads as _truth_.

“So, what’s it like inside of the snowdrift?” Bull asks.

She perks up, smiling, “You want to try?”

“Nah. I’m good. Why don’t you tell me, and we’ll see, though.” Bull says and smiles as Lavellan launches into a practical riptide of words detailing her morning pretending to be snow.

Bull is pretty sure Lavellan could make watching _grass grow_ interesting, but he’s not going to push it.

-

Dorian squints at her, “Well, now you’re pulling my leg for sure.”

Lavellan just blinks back at him, serene as an undisturbed pool or a patch of sunlight.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I can.” Lavellan replies. “I’m serious all the time.”

“I’m not explaining the concept of adultery to you.” Dorian says. “It’s bad enough I had to explain what prostitution was to you. And I’m still not sure you understand it. Nor do I want to know. Fasta vass, woman, I’m your friend and companion not your father. By the way – it’s usually a parent who teaches these things. So you should probably ask, I don’t know. Cassandra or Cullen. They seem like the responsible types. I would say ask Bull, but I don’t trust the brute to explain anything to you other than the Qun. And even then, I’m fairly certain he’d be tweaking it.”

“I understand prostitution.” Lavellan protests. “Varric helped explain that one. I like it when Varric helps explain things, he uses language I understand.”

“And pictures.” Dorian replies, lips twitching upwards. “Though you still have the worst grasp on economics.”

“I’m working on it.” Lavellan huffs. “Sera’s helping me.”

“That’s probably why it’s so terrible.” Dorian rolls his eyes. “Either way, you must already know what adultery is and you’re doing this to make fun of me.”

“I’m not. You’ll know when I’m making fun of you.”

“No, I won’t. Because you are strange and peculiar and I’m never sure about anything that comes out of your mouth.” Dorian flicks her forehead. “No. Go ask Cassandra. I could use a good laugh – no, wait, ask _Mother Giselle._ Please. Do it for Dorian. _Do it for Dorian_.”

Lavellan squints at him. “I don’t trust her. I think she lies to me.”

“Oh, she definitely tries to.” Dorian snorts. “Go. Please. Do it for me. Wait – I should go along to. I’ll hide or pretend to be plotting on how to throw half of Skyhold into the bonds of slavery. I’ll throw in some evil looking smiles while I’m at it. Yes. _Do it for me.”_

-

“Do I even want to know what you’re doing?” Blackwall looks between the three of them, all of them face down in the snow. He’s rather tired himself – he thinks that maybe he’s getting old. A somewhat terrifying thought, that someday he’ll be too old to be useful. Too old to fight when it’s all he’s got to offer. For now he can manage well enough, though. He’s still able to give his blood and body and bone.

“It’s cold on the snow.” Lavellan says, voice slightly muffled. “And it was very tiring climbing all the way over here. Demons and templars and stuff. I thought we should take a nice break. Get all the blood off. And snow is basically water, right? So this is like – a dry bath?”

Blackwall stares at the back of her head, then turns to Sera. He doesn’t know why he turns to Sera. There is no way she’d make sense.

“What she said.” Sera says, arms splayed out like she’s trying to hug the ground. “Fuck, this feels good. I’m sore all over and this is _the fucking best_.”

“You shouldn’t lay down in the snow if you’re sweating.” Blackwall says, crouching down to touch Lavellan’s shoulder. “It’ll make you sick.”

“Well it’s too late for that because now that I’m down I’m not getting up again.” Lavellan replies, nuzzling – _nuzzling_  – into the snow. Blackwall blinks when he thinks he sees her mouth working -

“Are you _eating the snow_?”

“It’s just water!”

Blackwall sighs and well – she’s eaten worse. This probably won’t kill her.

She’s drunk water from damned _bogs_ practically saturated with bloated and rotting corpses. And sure, she was sick as a dog afterwards. But she’' bounced back better than ever. Snow with a little dirt isn’t going to take her down.

Blackwall reaches over to lift up Cole’s hat.

“You alright, boy?”

“This feels odd.” Cole says. “But it makes them happy so I wanted to see if it would make me happy too. I don’t really understand it, but I’m happy that they are.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian isn’t very fond of being swept up, so of course, his only other option is to talk along side her.

Dorian isn’t sure what he was expecting from this _Herald of Andraste_ , but this – her, she – is not _it_. Whatever it was.

He supposes he expected someone rather snobbish – like him – and southern and rough – like the rest of Ferelden – and perhaps a bit slow. He does not expect much in the way of _good_ and _redeeming features_ , to be very honest.

So when he sees her coming towards him, he braces himself for the inevitable flurry of double-sided meanings and un-subtle comments about being a Tevinter altus. He is fully aware of how the rest of this _Inquisition_ looks at him and he isn’t afraid to back talk this _supposed_ Herald of Andraste to prove a point if he has to.

She comes over, her eyes fixed on his face – but flickering elsewhere, too, and _hm_ , does she want to talk to him? Nervous? – before she takes in a breath and Dorian cuts her off by asking her about being Dalish. She looks thrown and that was his plan – it’s what he _does_ , puts them on something more of an even ground. And he really does want to know about this whole – Dalish thing.

Rather than having the effect of confusing or perhaps putting her on guard he was hoping for, she beams at him, practically blossoming and turning into a little ball of light as she claps her hands and starts talking at a few hundred words per second.

Dorian stares and _he_ thought that people had trouble keeping up with _him_ -

The elf in the building across from him pauses in his contemplation of the Breach to turn and stare at them, stare at _her_ , before smiling – the man _smiles_ , Dorian didn’t even think that the elf _had_ any other facial expressions aside from _condescending_  – and turning back towards the sky.

Dorian is a little awed and mostly incredibly interested in both what she’s saying and how fast she’s saying it, so when she throws a question in there it takes him a moment for it to register.

“May I touch you?” She blurts out, large eyes fixed on his face. Her fingers flutter and fidget. He stares at her as she rocks on her heels -

“ _Pardon_?”

“I just – “ Her fingers curl and jerk a little before she traps them underneath her arms. Her toes curl on the frozen ground and he really ought to ask how in flames she’s walking around without shoes - “I know shems don’t like it when people touch them. But there are so many _buckles_ and _strings_ and I’ve been trying to figure out how it _works_ but I can’t and it’s just like with Cullen’s armor all over again. It has to come off but I don’t know how and Bull suggested that maybe I make friends with you and talk to you first before asking you how your clothes come off, but I can’t help it, _I’m just so curious_ and I think I’ve talked with you long enough for it to count, does it count yet? Why is only one shoulder exposed, is there a reason behind that, and where do those strings go?”

Dorian absorbs this for about a minute.

“Well, to start with – you’re going to have to tell me all about the Commander’s armor coming off and whatnot at a later time. And secondly I’ll have you know that this is the _height_ of fashion in Tevinter and what other purpose does there have to be aside from that? Granted, it’s a bit _nippy_ , but I didn’t exactly pack expecting to find myself in the middle of the frozen backwater of Ferelden, now did I? And who is this _Bull_ you’re talking about? Is that the name of your stag – please don’t tell me that you can actually talk to animals, _please don’t_. That is too much impossibility for one day thank you.”

“Don’t be silly. Bull is a Qunari not a _stag_.” Lavellan replies before sucking in another one of those breaths and launching into her new topic. And Dorian -

Dorian isn’t very fond of being swept up, so of course, his only other option is to talk along side her.

It is perhaps, the most fun he’s had in _ages_.

(They do, of course, later get to the dark and dirty questions. Slavery and blood magic, and whatnot. But that’s later and Dorian finds he doesn’t quite mind it so much with her.

Also -

“Are you Andrastian?” She asks, fidgeting and leaning into his space as she inspects one of the buckles on his shoulder. He hasn’t said she could touch, yet, and mostly it’s because he’s trying to figure out how she’s going to possibly contain herself.

“Yes.” Dorian replies, then pauses before quickly adding on - “Not a _good_ , Andrastian, mind you. I’m not a _good one_.”

He’s actually a terrible Andrastian, by the terms of both Chantries – North and South.

“Oh.” She looks disappointed and he can visibly _see_ her drooping. “Everyone is Andrastian, except for hahren but he doesn’t believe in anything. And Bull. He’s a Qunari. Keeper always said that there were a lot of interesting human things but everyone I’ve met is Andrastian and it’s really, really tiresome.”)

-

“Your scouts are _wrong_.” She says, eyes completely dry, face clean, clothes perfectly in order. It’s the last part that makes Leliana feel awful. Lavellan is trying so hard to stay composed, denying all of it and – She is anything but.

(Normal Lavellan – the Lavellan they are all used to, never looks this _neat_. Never sounds this _serious_. And is absolutely _never this still_.)

“They know what they saw, Inquisitor.” What they saw was the death of clan Lavellan.

“They saw wrong.” Lavellan replies, arms folded, feet planted. She lifts her chin in defiance. “It was a trick. Some sort of plan – I’m sure of it. They’re hiding in the woods, waiting for assistance, or – “

“Lavellan.” Leliana interrupts, reaching for one of the parchment tubes the crows that came in with this morning. “I am sorry.”

Leliana holds the tube out for her.

Lavellan plucks it from her hands, eyes defiant as she opens it, tilting it into her palm, looking into Leliana’s face the entire time. Leliana has to close her eyes when Lavellan looks at what falls into her hand.

She has to close her eyes – but it isn’t fast enough to not see the flash of _horror_ , grief, and absolute loss that cracks through the mask of her composure.

Leliana draws in a breath, turning her head so that she’s looking at the rail by Lavellan’s hip rather than at her grief.

“Our scouts reached him but there was nothing they could do. He knew they were Inquisition, he wanted to pass a message to you. He wanted you to know that he loves you. Always. And that he’s so proud of you.”

“Mahanon.” Lavellan whispers, and the tube drops to the ground with a hollow thunk. “ _Mahanon_.”

“The scouts moved the bodies. Away from Wycome. Into the forest. But there was nothing else they could do. Nothing else we could do. I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan doesn’t answer, and Leliana doesn’t expect her to.


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why does Varric call you Poppy?”

Bull wakes up as soon as he hears the door open – relaxes when he realizes who’s feet they are and pretends to still be asleep, and then further pretends to ignore the light weight that bounces on the mattress, and the small (to him) hands that nudge, prod, and tug at him.

“Bull, look! Bull!” Lavellan calls at him, tugging at his fingers and poking his shoulder. He wonders if she ever pays actual attention to whether he brings someone to his room or not, and he makes a note to ask her, later, because he really rather not get his head lopped off his shoulders by the Seeker or Leliana because she came running in here while he was busy with someone else.

“Boss.” Bull says, turning his head to look at her after she starts whining and feels like she’s ready to start sparking magic to get him awake. “What’s up?”

Lavellan’s face beams at him and she holds up a worn picture book, so worn Bull can barely read the title, the cover must’ve been yellow at one point but now it’s a strange sort of tan-gray.

“You’re in the book!” She declares, nudging him until he’s sitting up and she tucks herself into his side. Bull imagines that this is what kids are like – as in, your own kids. Or maybe siblings. He’s not sure. He’s Qunari, they don’t have either.

Lavellan’s hair brushes against his skin and she’s a tiny little ball of warmth that smells a bit like grass and the soap Dorian uses. Also a bit of sugar – must’ve been with Josephine again.

She opens the book – and the pictures are just as faded on the inside, she must’ve found it in the shady looking rooms below Skyhold – and points at one of the pictures.

“It’s you!” She declares, bouncing a little as she points. “Look! They’ve got the horns and gray skin and _everything!”_

Bull squints and yeah – those are definitely horns, but he’s pretty sure the gray-skin part comes from the book being really old and worn out rather than any initial artist’s choice.

“Yeah?” Bull goes along, anyway, because she must’ve been really happy to see it to come running at him at – Bull glances out one of the narrow windows – really early in the - “Boss, did you sleep last night?”

“Night?” She turns to blink up at him. “Oh, right. I was _going_ to, you see, but then I got lost and I found a whole bunch of rooms no one’s gotten to yet and I went exploring.”

Bull ruffles her hair, “You should probably take a nap, then.”

“Don’t worry! Cole was with me!” She says, “I was perfectly safe and also he brought me candy from Josephine’s desk. Did you know she has _apple flavored candies?_ They taste really sour but Cole likes them so I gave them all to him and he traded me for her candied oranges.” She holds the book up. “But Bull, look! It’s _you!”_

Bull really thinks that it’s a cartoon of an anthropomorphic cow, which is kind of insulting. But she probably doesn’t know that and he’s not going to tell her any different.

“And what’s the me in the book doing? Slaying dragons? Going on adventures?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read it.” Lavellan says, lowering the book onto her lap. “I think it’s the book’s fault, not mine.”

“Yeah, the letters are pretty old.” Bull agrees. “Why don’t you look at the pictures and tell me what you think the picture me is doing? Come on, you can tell me while the Chargers do drills. I bet they’d like to help, too.”

Lavellan perks up, scrambling off the bed - “I’m gonna wake up Dalish!”

Which also means she’s going to wake up Skinner and Bull still doesn’t know how she does it without Skinner threatening to take her eye out.

Bull slams a fist on the wall between his room and Krem’s, earning a loud groan and what could be a boot – Rocky’s, only his are heavy enough to make a sound like that - being thrown at the wall.

“Sun’s up, Inquisitor’s perky, and it’s story time.” Bull yells at the wall, “Training yard in fifteen, don’t be late or suffer her disappointment.”

“ _That’s a low goddamn blow, chief_.” Krem yells back, “ _You want to tell me you’re gonna start drowning kittens for every minute we’re late, too?”_

-

“Why does Varric call you Poppy?”

“Because they’re my favorite and I don’t know how he knew that but he told me that I should smile like them when I was crying because poppies are pretty when they smile.”

Cole tilts his head, “Yes. I see it. You should always be happy, because you are very beautiful when you are happy and you deserve to be. It’s not right when you aren’t happy. You were meant for joy and delight, to be light.”

“You think?” She tilts her head, leaning low to look into his face, smiling. She is so bright, even in this world. She helps people by just being her and Cole wishes he could be like that someday.

“Yes.” Cole says, “We do.”

Her smile is so wide and it shows her teeth and her gums and Vivienne always tells her not to smile so widely, but her smaller smiles aren’t nearly as warm as this one is. It’s the smile she gives when only Cole is looking.

She pulls a glistening bun out of a small bag - “Split it with me.” She says and Cole still isn’t too sure on food but it looks nice. The top glistens with honey and when she rips it in half there’s purple paste on the inside. She also pulls out dried apple slices and a handful of cherries.

They spit the cherry pits into the garden from where they’re sitting on the roof. Cole likes fruit. Fruits like to be eaten because they’re helping and then their seeds get a chance to be elsewhere.

Cole kicks his legs, a tap sound that makes him feel at ease, and she follows in his rhythm and starts humming. A song with the words half-forgotten, a haze of memory and and warmth. Remembered, faded memories. Soft like worn leather, faded paint, velvet paper. Cherished and held close.

No one else knows the words, but she knows the memory. And she shares it willingly.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No. He’s got a handle on this.” Blackwall replies. “Probably should bring her separate water, though. I’m pretty sure the lizard spits in that water when no one’s checking.”

The stage of bargaining is – thus far – one of the hardest for her. For them all.

There is a joke, somewhere, about her tenuous grasp on economics and currency, tax and interest rates, currency conversions -

“But you were from _Wycome_. Isn’t there anything you can do? I’ll be very good. I won’t complain about dance lessons and I’ll stop letting Sera play tricks on your guests, and – and – and I’ll even go to the tea parties.” Lavellan says, eyes wide as she leans in close. Vivienne rests a hand on her shoulder -

“I was born in Wycome, Inquisitor. And I haven’t been to the Free Marches in years. I was a _child_ then. There is nothing I can do for you.”

“But – “

Vivienne squeezes her narrow shoulders in her hands. “Inquisitor, there is _nothing_ you can do.”

“I’ll wear the heels.” Lavellan says, “I’ll even wear the corset and I won’t say a single word when someone says something about knife-ears. I’ll – I’ll even let you put make up over my vallaslin.”

Vivienne touches the girl’s chin, “Lavellan.”

She flies over the stairs and bannister, rushing owards Blackwall because he has to listen to her – he pledged his life to the Inquisition, to _her_ , he has to listen -

“I am sorry, my lady.” Blackwall says, planting himself firm between her and the stable doors, “But I do not think that this is the wisest course of action.”

Lavellan looks up at him with dark and wet eyes before she shoves him, hard – doesn’t do much, he’s ready for it – and runs to Cullen because he’s military and he can get her out of this stupid fortress, he can get her to Wycome, he can get her in – he can help her. He has to.

“I’ll stop coming into your room.” She says, trailing after him, “I’ll stop brawling with the Chargers. I’ll study the Chant of Light every night and recite it with you. Please. Please. _Please_ let me go.”

“Inquisitor.” Cullen says, gently taking her arms and holding her. “Even if I did let you go, what would you do? It is – it is done. Even if there was something you could do - Wycome is a long way off, it would take weeks for you to get there. By then it wouldn’t matter.”

“I have to go.” She says, “ _I have to_. I’ll do anything. Please.”

“Inquisitor.” Cullen gently steers her out the door towards Dorian, towards Solas. Towards the ones who are best at getting through to her. “I am sorry.”

-

“She’s been following after Cole and meowing all morning.” Dorian says when he makes his way into the tavern, “I am concerned and I need you to look at her and use your spy senses to tell me my concern is misplaced.”

Bull glances up from where he’s skimming over a letter Skinner wanted him to check out – she’s getting bored sitting around Skyhold, he’s gonna end up sending her out soon, and she’s right, he should probably send her off to Val Royeaux to make some noise for the Inquisition or something – and kicks out a chair for him.

“Good to see you too, Vint.”

“Get up and make sure she’s not – “ Dorian waves a hand, “I don’t know. I just don’t know at this point.” Dorian glares when Bull rolls his eye and goes back to reading Skinner’s letter. She really is more eloquent in writing than when she’s grunting and cursing him out. Her penmanship is also amazingly neat. He believes her when she says she’s forged letters from nobles. This is some fancy writing right here.

“She’s fine. They’re probably looking for a lost cat or something.” Bull replies, “Relax. She’s fine. She’s done stranger.”

The look on Dorian’s face says that he knows that and it doesn’t change his opinion either way.

“Go check on her.”

“Why me? She’s got the kid with her. It’s not like he’d let her do anything bad. They keep each other safe.” Bull says, “It’s not like half of Skyhold isn’t watching her every move like fucking mother bears or something, either. She’s fine.”

“Cole was holding onto the back of her pants while she leaned off of a broken wall and meowed into the wind.” Dorian deadpans, eyebrow raising as if to say _your move_. “Is she fine?”

Bull sighs. “I’ll go check on her.”

“Good. While you’re at it,” Dorian slaps a pair of shoes into his hand, “Remind her that she has an etiquette lesson at one and I may not be there but Josephine and Leliana will be ready and waiting.”

-

“She crawled into the stable, made it to the hart’s stall, and he picked her up by the back of her clothes and dragged her over the railing. She’s asleep, I think. Or unconscious. He’s been guarding her all night, I couldn’t check.” Blackwall says when Cassandra finds him on her search for the Inquisitor, “Not even the lizard is willing to piss him off.”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder at the rather thunderous looking hart.

“We did get in late.” She says, “I wondered where she went.”

Blackwall lifts a shoulder, “Well. I think she’s fine. Sleeping off her travels, no doubt. Just bring her meals here, I don’t think that stag is letting her out of his sight for a while.”

Cassandra considers how much Josephine and Vivienne will fret and worry over this, then considers how tired the Inquisitor was on their ride back from Orlais.

“I’ll tell the kitchen staff.” Cassandra concedes. “Should I bring anything for her? Does she need a blanket? Clothes?”

“I think she’s fine.” Blackwall replies. “She sleeps on the ground in snow sometimes. This is probably down right cozy for the lass. Just ask for some quiet around here, if possible. Stables can be quiet but those merchants and nobles out there get into riots sometimes.”

They both turn when they hear a groan, and watch as Lavellan drags herself up and dunks her head in the hart’s watering trough.

“Should I be worried.” Cassandra says when Lavellan doesn’t surface.

The hart picks her up with his teeth and drags her deeper into the stall.

“No. He’s got a handle on this.” Blackwall replies. “Probably should bring her separate water, though. I’m pretty sure the lizard spits in that water when no one’s checking.”

-


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Practicing war cries, ser.” Rocky says. “She’s the leader of a mighty force, she’s gotta get one for her own.”

She didn’t used to have scars, once.  Unless you counted her vallaslin. Dorian runs his hand over her back, thumb catching on the little nicks and the larger ones. She hums a little, eyes flickering underneath her eyelids as she naps, head resting on her folded arms.

“You will fall and drown.” Dorian says, shaking her shoulder a little, “In a hotspring in the Emprise. That is not the way for you to go.”

His hand falls to her side, and he feels the smooth, almost silky burn that matches his palm, winces because that is possibly one of the worst memories he’s ever had – will have.

(He remembers when he gave it to her. It seems like ages ago, when the Inquisition was still getting on its feet and supplies were scarce, no matter how much elfroot and embrium and lotus Lavellan seemed to be picking up, much to the annoyance and slight dismay of their traveling party. There is a special kind of resignation and annoyance one learns to have when they see Lavellan suddenly  jump off the side of a cliff and skid to the bottom just to collect elfroot.

She had been shot, and the arrow’s entry was at a messy angle. It got through her armor and it was poisoned, too. They were all out of lyrium, out of potions, and had nothing to actually do something to transport her.

He and Vivienne exchanged a single look, and Vivienne immediately went to hold down her arms, and Cassandra pinned down her legs. And Dorian – Dorian was the only one with any useful amount of mana left, and everyone knows it takes more to heal than to destroy.

So he carefully peeled away her clothes and armor around the area as she hissed and tried to twist out of their grip. He thinks there was something afraid in her eyes but she never said what and Dorian never wanted to make sure. He wasn’t brave enough then, and he’s still not brave enough now.

He pulled out the arrow and then pressed his hot and burning palm to the wound.

She didn’t scream. It says something about her that she didn’t scream. She tensed and Cassandra and Vivienne both had a hard time holding her down, holding her still. But the wound closed and some of the poison burned off and she was fit for transport.

The only sound she made was a single, high pitched _keen_.

He looked into her face. And she was pale and her eyes were wet. She stared up into the sky, breath rattling as she went limp. Most others – grown and battle hardened men and women, Dorian thinks and knows, would have screamed, vomited. They would have passed out. Some would have soiled themselves.

Lavellan does none of that.

She breathes in deep and closes her eyes. She opens them and they aren’t wet anymore, she wipes her face with her sleeve and accepts Cassandra’s hand up. Dorian isn’t able to touch her for almost a week after this. She is the one to come up to him and tuck herself into his side as he tries to blot out the smell of her skin burning underneath his hand.

She turns to him and smiles. “Thank you.” She says and Dorian feels a little sick and a lot tired.

His hand is a brand on her side, silken and fading, but present to the touch.)

She kicks his shin, “I won’t drown. That’s what _you’re_ here for.” She replies, sniffs, and swims to the other side of the pool. Dorian rolls his eyes. “I trust you. You’re my _best friend_. You wouldn’t let me die.”

-

“Should I be concerned?” Cullen says when he opens the door to his office and sees Lavellan standing on the parapets, Grim holding her by the waist as she yell-warbles out into the valley.

Grim turns to him, looks up at the Inquisitor, then back at him, and grunts.

Cullen feels strangely reassured by it.

“Commander.” Rocky says, touching his fingers to his temple in a mock-salute, “Morning.”

“Good morning. May I ask what, exactly, is going on?”

“Practicing war cries, ser.” Rocky says. “She’s the leader of a mighty force, she’s gotta get one for her own.”

On cue, Lavellan lets out another warbling cry – it sounds more nervous than anything else – and turns to them. “Does that one sound better than the last one?”

Her face is red-pink and she’s panting a little.

“A little less nervousness. Needs more _oomph_.” Rocky says, Grim grunts. Rocky holds up an unlabelled bottle. “Have some _oomph_.”

Cullen takes the bottle, “Perhaps you could try that later.”

He’s fairly sure this is the brew with the deep mushrooms and they truly do not need the Inquisitor drunk and about to pass out before a meeting.

“After the council.” Cullen tacks on, and makes a note to try and get all the deep mushroom drinks confiscated, or at least, out of Lavellan’s reach. Again. “And perhaps after midday meal.”

A very heavy midday meal. To balance out the alcohol he knows the Chargers tend to slip her on the side.

“Don’t drop her.” Cullen says, walking past them on the way to the training grounds to oversee morning drills. “We can’t replace her.”

Rocky sketches another salute and Grim grunts. Lavellan beams at him before letting out a slightly less hesitant yell.

“That’s it! You’re getting it!” Rocky declares as she belts out a wordless cry that sounds a lot like a crow’s squawk. Cullen shakes his head as he walks down the stairs.

At least they’re having fun.


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan is just a shock of hair, spilling out of the opening of the Commander’s coat – curled up small and tiny against a wall.

“Cole? Cole are you up there?” Dorian takes the stairs two at a time – and at this point, everyone in Skyhold is used to someone or other yelling for someone named Cole at all hours of the day. “Cole!”

“I am here. Is something wrong, Dorian? You feel troubled. You shouldn’t be.” Cole meets him halfway down the stairs, head cocked in confusion. “Are you alright, Dorian? Is something the matter?”

“Lavellan.” Dorian says, waving a hand in the general direction of the gardens. “Go fix her. Or whatever it is you do. What’s wrong with her?”

Cole blinks, tilting his head again as his eyes go distant, he tips his head down, the brim of his hat hiding his face. Dorian leans against the stair rail and waits. He catches Krem’s eye and waves a hand.

“She’s alright, though. I don’t know what you want me to fix.” Cole replies after a moment, sounding puzzled. “Quiet, calm, serene, a pool undisturbed, waiting, the tides at rest. At rest and at peace. Do not disturb. The ripples silence. Dorian, she’s alright.”

“She’s been _quiet_.” Dorian huffs, “Hasn’t said a single word all morning. To _anyone_. Just sits and watches people. Quite frankly, it’s a little unnerving. Something must be wrong. I didn’t even realize she was capable of holding still while _awake_.” Dorian tugs on Cole’s sleeve. “Come on.”

“It’s a quiet day.” Cole replies after a pause, “It’s a quiet day. That’s all. Sometimes she has quiet days. There’s nothing wrong. She’s fine. Dorian I think you are worrying too much.”

“Half of Skyhold is worrying. That girl wasn’t made to be quiet and hold still.” Dorian throws an arm up. “And shut up, Bull. I can feel you about to say something. Just shut up. You haven’t seen her. It’s downright _eerie_.”

Bull shrugs. “Well. Don’t you think the kid’d know? It’s kind of his _thing_.”

“If I go and pretend to fix her, would you feel better?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Oh.” Cole plays with his fingers, frowning at his feet. “Then I’m not sure what you want me to do, exactly.”

“Tell you what.” Krem says, before Dorian or Bull can say anything more, “How about I go with the boy and we swing by and take a look at her. A fresh set of eyes, yeah?”

“Yeah. You do that.” Bull says -

“A fresh set of eyes isn’t going to change what half of Skyhold is thinking – “ Dorian protests -

“Come on.” Krem says, setting his half-empty bottle down on a barrel. “Could use some fresh air.”

-

“What’re you doing out here, Poppy? The party’s inside.” Varric says when he finally finds her perched on a stone balcony, thin legs kicking a beat he vaguely recognizes from Cole on the stone rails.

“It’s very loud inside. And stuffy. And everything makes my nose tickle.” She says, eyes drooping. There’s something to be said here about cities and forests, poppy fields and city streets. “I’m tired. How do shems do this?”

“With practice and a lot of alcohol. Also those weird clothes probably keep them standing.” Varric replies. “Don’t you wanna see the result of your hard work?”

“I can hear it from here.” Lavellan laughs, shoulders drooping a bit. “I’ve always wanted to see Halamshiral.”

She closes her eyes. “The end of the journey. The long walk. It ended here, once.”

Varric frowns and – well. yeah. There’s shit like that, too.

He wonders what it would feel like if he had to save the life of the people who shat on his people. Not that Varric really _has_ people. Not like that.

“You did real good, Poppy.” Varric says, “I’m proud of you. And I’m sure a lot of other people are, too.”

“You think so? I’m not sure.” Lavellan says, tilting her face up towards the stars. She laughs. “I’m not sure at all.”

“You want to go inside, Poppy?” Varric asks. “The others were looking for you.”

And he’s certain that they’d be better at convincing her than him.

She kicks another half-hearted beat. “No. I think I’ll stay out here a bit longer.”

Varric can hear the strains of a waltz starting up and -

“You know. You went through an awful lot of dancing lessons for this. It’d be a shame if you only had that one dance with that murderous traitor.” Varric says, holding his hand out to her. “And no one else’d dance with me. Wanna keep me company for a bit?”

Lavellan looks down at him and smiles, hopping down off the ledge and taking his hand.

“I’d be honored to, Varric.”

-

“She has to come down sometime, right?” Sera and Dorian exchange worried looks. “I mean, it’s not like she can stay up there _forever_.”

“Cole’s been running her supplies. I think she _can_.” Krem replies. “Also she’s got a mock board up there so she can run war table operations. She even has a bucket.”

“A bucket.” Dorian deadpans. “What else does she have up there? A feathered mattress? A nice armchair? Pillows? A nice settee she can lounge on?”

Krem cocks an eyebrow, “I don’t know. Why don’t _you_ go up there and look?”

“Who _is_ up there with her?” Sera asks.

“Dalish. Cole. I think they got a puppy up there but they ended up letting him back down. Maybe a kitten or a bird or two. I don’t know, I’m not exactly monitoring this situation.” Krem sighs, “The Commander just grabbed me and told me to stay here while he went to talk to the other, supposedly, responsible adults of Skyhold.”

“Do we know why she’s up there?” Sera asks, squinting through the branches. She thinks she sees a bit of Dalish’s hair.

“She has a list of demands.” Krem says. “That she hit the Commander in the forehead with.” Krem raises his voice and yells, “Nice aim!”

“Thank you!” Lavellan calls back.

“Well. You seem like the responsible types and I had people to yell at.” Krem says, smacking a hand to Dorian’s shoulder. “She’s yours, now. Tell the Commander that I had to run those drills with those soldiers he sent over yesterday. I’m not keeping them waiting. They might end up killing each other.”

Dorian sighs. “Ah yes, not like I had anything better to do.”

Sera snorts. “All you do is drink wine and sit pretty. This is the highlight of your day. I mean. Half of your day is already here.” Sera waves a hand at the tree. “She’s the one who keeps you company when you sit pretty, anyway. Might as well keep _her_ company while she sits pretty.”

-

Lavellan is just a shock of hair, spilling out of the opening of the Commander’s coat – curled up small and tiny against a wall.

Cole sits and pets her side, occasionally disappearing and reappearing, leaving offerings of more blankets, bowls of hot tea or soup, and the occasional flower.

Adamant, Cullen thinks as he yells orders, has taken something out of her that all of this – all of this so far – hasn’t been able to, just yet.

He wonders what will happen to her now. Her first battle. Her first true war. She has seen death, she has killed before. But she is no soldier. Never has been, and Cullen doesn’t think she ever will be. But this is something.

A step towards Command. Towards Leadership.

She sent people in to die, walked with them as they fell around her. Was forced to walk past and over them.

That is something that – that everyone has to deal with, in the times they live in, at least once.

And then there was _the Fade_.

And then there was _Hawke_.

She sent the best thing to happen to Kirkwall to die, and Cullen can’t say he wouldn’t have chosen differently – but she isn’t him and she has her reasons. She just has to live with them, now. Cullen takes a moment to breathe – the Inquisition a flurry of movement around him as they gather injured, scavenge the wreckage of the fortress, and prepare to move back to Skyhold.

Solas was by, earlier, to try and coax her out of her silence. Truth be told, Cullen had almost snapped at the man to leave her be.

Sometimes – sometimes you need to be alone with your decisions. Sometimes you need to be alone with your thoughts.

And Maker knows that the girl needed _sleep_.

He’s fairly certain that she’s been sleeping and thinking in turns. He’s not sure if she’s in her nap phase, right now. He thinks he’s spotted the pattern. He’s used to it, he thinks. Personal experience.

Jerking awake, mouth sealed shut to hide gasps – don’t want to be noticed, want to stay in the safety of sleep – holding still as nightmare touches ghost against your skin, so still that you can almost trick yourself into falling asleep again.

Cullen takes a break to carefully walk over and kneel over her, hand resting on where he thinks her shoulder might be.

She remains as still, as slowly breathing, as she was a moment before.

“You did very well today.” Cullen says, “I know it might not seem like you did a good thing, right now. But you did. You survived. You saved our people. And you put a dent in Corypheus’ forces. It hurts right now, and I’m sorry that you had to make that choice. But it has been made. And most people wouldn’t have been able to get that far to start with.”

The lump doesn’t move.

Cullen doesn’t expect it to.

He stands up and returns to the make shift table he’s been using to direct soldiers.

The next time he looks, the lump hasn’t moved, but there’s a small little piece of Vandal Aria – the ones that Cole has been leaving next to her – peering out of the ruff of his cloak right by the tuft of her hair.


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel like you used to care so much more about the rules and laws and whatnot.”

“They’re people made of rocks.” Lavellan concludes, and -

“Basically, yes.” Leliana replies. She misses Shale. Shale always had such a terrifyingly frank way of saying things. It was terribly amusing to watch. Especially when aimed at Alistair. Or Zevran.

Golems are almost as hard to explain to Lavellan as economics.

“So they’re rock people.” She says, “How do they eat? _What_ do they eat?”

“They don’t.”

“But everything eats something.” Lavellan replies, “Even Cole.”

“Yes well – “ Leliana has no idea how to explain an inanimate object or an animate object, or how Shale is something that is neither and both. “Golems are a little different.”

“I don’t see why. They’re still _people_.” Lavellan frowns. “People eat things so they can grow big and strong so they can fight and hit things.”

Lavellan raises and waves her fist around as if she’s waving a sword. Leliana wonders if that’s Bull, Blackwall, Sera, or entirely her.

“They’re already quite large.” Leliana says, “And very strong.”

“But how do they _grow_?”

“They don’t.” Leliana cuts Lavellan off before she can ask another question - “Why don’t you ask Solas? I’m certain that he’s seen some golems in his travels. He said that he’s dreamed of dwarven battles, right?”

“He has.” Lavellan says, turning to peer over the railing. “He’s told me about a few of them. But you knew one. Solas always says that the Fade changes what he sees. That it is all real.” She kicks her heel against the floor a few times and Leliana takes the time to scribble out a few more lines on one of her messages and sort out some of her other ones for distribution. “Hm. I’m going to go ask him and then you can clarify the rest, right?”

“Of course.” Leliana replies. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

Leliana looks up in time to see Lavellan jogging down the stairs.

“You do this on purpose, don’t you?” Scout Ritts says, taking up the messages to be delivered through Skyhold. Leliana smiles.

“It’s called delegation of work, Ritts. And it’s very important to managing large organizations and larger curiosities.”

-

Dorian startles when he looks up and sees a pair of faintly glowing eyes staring back down at him in the darkness. He has fire at his fingertips and half a witty-remark on his mouth before the eyes blink at him and then disappear.

He squints up at the dark branches, wonders if maybe he should just go back inside this pathetic excuse of a tavern and maybe drink more of that piss they call ale.

“Dorian.” Lavellan’s voice calls him and he jumps back with a yelp when she pops down, hanging _up-side-down_ out of the branches. Her eyes are fucking glowing in the dark. Andraste’s flaming _sword_. “You’re wobbling, Dorian. Are you okay?”

“I’m a tad bit drunk.” Dorian replies, “And your eyes are _glowing_.”

Lavellan blinks and tilts her head.

“You are also up side down in a _tree_.”

“Oh, I like the trees.” Lavellan says. “It’s fun to watch people and no one stops to talk to me and tell me things like I should put on shoes or go to bed or talk to me about the Chant of Light. Also of course they glow. All elf eyes glow in the dark. We see better than you humans do.”

Dorian doesn’t remember if the servant’s eyes glowed in the dark, but then again he was never really in the pitch like it is here. Tevinter was so much brighter. That and he’s in the backwaters of the _backwaters_.

“Well. You certainly gave me something of a fright.” Dorian says. “I almost set you on fire.”

Lavellan’s teeth are a flash in the dark as she laughs, “You could have tried it. I mean – I’m not bad at magic. I would’ve stopped you.”

Dorian hums, “Are you going to come down?”

Lavellan sways a little. “I guess. Dorian why are you drunk? It’s not that fun, is it?”

Dorian is fairly certain that someone told him Lavellan was around twenty or twenty one.

“You have gotten drunk before, yes?” Dorian raises an eyebrow, wonders if she can see it. Probably. Her fingers startle him when they curl around his elbow, saving him from hitting his head on a low hanging branch.

“It wasn’t that fun.” Lavellan says. “But everyone else around here seems to like it. Bull seems to _really_ like it.”

“Being drunk is best done in the company of friends.” Dorian says. “Not that I’d know.”

“Then why do _you_ get drunk?”

“Because it’s what I’m good at. I’m very good at being pretty and drunk, and both at the same time.” Dorian says, leaning against her side. She always smells a little bit like the stables and a lot like pine needles. It’s not an unpleasant smell. Better than the inside of the tavern, at least.

“You’re good at other things, too.” Lavellan replies. Confident and easy in ways Dorian didn’t think anyone could be. “Have you eaten? I haven’t. Let’s go find food. I’m sure it won’t be too hard. Everyone’s always handing me things to eat even when it’s not meal time. I’m not sure why.”

Probably because she looks like a starved stick on legs.

Still. Dorian is willing to use that to his advantage if it means something edible.

“Alright.” Dorian slings his arm around her shoulder, “Off we go then. Supper for two.”

-

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you shouldn’t talk to strangers?” Dorian asks, not really expecting an answer as Lavellan wanders up to a talking group of lace monstrosities in the middle of Val Royeaux. “Didn’t _anyone_ ever teach her not to talk to strangers?”

Cassandra snorts. “She’ll be fine. None of them are armed.” Cassandra’s hand lowers to the sword at her hip. “And they won’t be able to move in those clothes.”

Dorian turns to Vivienne, “Is she _serious_.”

“Of course she is, we could most certainly take them. They aren’t even armed, darling. We wouldn’t even have to draw our weapons.” Vivienne hums, idly tapping the end of her staff on the pavement. “And what is she thinking? That lace? With that brocade? That’s just unnecessary. Goodness, that doesn’t even match anything this _or_ last season. What an embarrassment.”

“Does no one in the south teach any of their children about _not talking to strangers_? Are you all just so – so charming to each other that it isn’t even necessary to teach the dangers of speaking to unknown strangers without introduction? And does it always come down to _can I take them in a fight_?”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow, and Vivienne titters. Dorian wishes that Lavellan had brought along – Sera, or maybe Varric instead.

“We are an independent military force called _the Inquisition_. Fighting against demons and a tear in the Veil against an ancient Tevinter magister who possibly caused the Blight.” Cassandra replies, “Of course everything comes down to _can I take them in a fight_. It’s _what we do_.”

She has a point. Dorian sighs and Lavellan doesn’t seem to have made anyone anything other than rather disconcerted, and knowing Orlais and Val Royeaux, they probably deserve just a little bit of that.

“It’s amazing how you’ve all survived to this point. Josephine must have the words of an angel.” Dorian says, trying to catch Lavellan’s attention.

“Josephine is very good at smoothing ruffled feathers.” Vivienne agrees. “She’s an absolute treasure.”

“And that is why we’re here.” Cassandra says, holding up the list of things Josephine requested. “If we could figure out where any of this is.”

“It’s such a shame that all the stores have shuffled themselves around.” Vivienne says, “It’s rather troublesome, really. I can’t believe they chose now of all times to remodel. It is going to take me ages to find that salon again. They had the most lovely catalogues. And they were very private.”

Lavellan meanders back over to them, pausing to try and climb a hedge and pick an apple.

“I feel like we could be arrested at any moment.” Dorian says.

“They could try.” Cassandra shrugs.

“I feel like you used to care so much more about the rules and laws and whatnot.”

“I’ve had to deal with _you_ , Varric, Sera, Bull, and Cole for the past few months.” Cassandra replies, “It’s been impressed upon me the importance of picking your battles in order to win a war.”

“What are we picking?” Lavellan asks, leaves in her hair and three apples in her hands. “These smell so nice. Are these on the list, by any chance?”

Dorian exchanges a glance with Cassandra. The answer is no.

But she looks so _very_ proud.

“The apples of Val Royeaux are very famous for their smell.” Vivienne says.

“Yes.” Cassandra answers. “Well done. They were on the list.”

Lavellan perks up and passes the apples to Dorian before going off again.

“We’re going to end up with nothing but random objects she picks up off the street.” Dorian says.

“Vivienne and I will go get the things Josephine asked for.” Cassandra says, “ _You_ keep her out of trouble.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Vivienne replies, “I know it must be hard for you, considering,” Vivienne waves at _all of him_ , “But do make a good faith effort.”

Dorian refrains from rolling his eyes. Sometimes Vivienne reminds him of his mother, and it’s almost worth it to say it to her face. But Lavellan looks like she’s two seconds away from trying to take the flowers out of the foyer of a boutique and someone has to stop her.


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are so terribly uncultured. I do adore you.” Dorian curls an arm around her waist, resting his head against her side. “You smell like mud.”

“I think I am in trouble.” Lavellan says, falling into step next to him as he shelves books. It’s like the south hasn’t  heard of organization. Who would even put a text on nug biology next to a critical discussion of the Dissonant Canticles?

“Your name practically is trouble at this point. Go on.” Lavellan picks some books out of his arms and sets them down on a table. “Oh, is this a serious discussion?”

“I think that I accidentally got myself married to three different people and I don’t know what to do about it.” Lavellan says. “You’re the first person I thought to go to, please don’t let me down, also one of my new spouses is expecting children.”

“First of all.” Dorian says, slowly putting the rest of the books down and dragging her into an alcove. At this point all the alcoves are his, no exceptions. “You do not say something like that without warning a man.”

He pauses, expectant and gives her a _go on_ motion. Lavellan sighs.

“Dorian I have something to tell you and you may need to sit down and have a glass of wine.”

“Second.” Dorian says, holding up two fingers, “You might want to consider lowering your voice when in a library and when revealing scandalous gossip like that.”

Lavellan nods.

“Third. I am incredibly honored and slightly disconcerted that I’m your first choice to go to.”

“You’re my best friend. Also you seem like the sort who would know how to get out of things like this. You’re a noble.”

“Half of your court is nobles.”

“Half of my court are considered traitors to their _people_.” Lavellan replies. Dorian blinks.

“Point to the Dalish barbarian who’s just learned to read.”

Lavellan preens.

“Alright, now that we have that sorted. _Fasta vass, woman_ , how do you get married to _three different people_ without knowing it?”

“Well I can’t get married to three identical people – ow!”

“We have to fix this.”

“I know.” Lavellan shuffles her feet. “Well one of them was because I wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation and at one point we slipped into a dialect I wasn’t familiar with.”

“Alright, Josephine can probably fix that one, simple enough.”

“Um. I’m not sure about the other two. It just happened.” Lavellan frowns at her hands. “I think something about eye contact and the virginity of the soul? I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“This is why I keep telling everyone that we ought to keep the foreign dignitaries in a little pen.” Dorian sighs, rubbing his temples. “A little wooden pen that’s monitored.”

“Like Leliana’s nugs?”

“Exactly like Leliana’s nugs. Come on, point them out to me and we can probably cause some sort of scandal that’ll make you unfit to be wed.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Dorian. We definitely can cause a scandal.”

-

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Madame Vivienne that mad. What did you do?”

“Insulted her tailor.” Dorian replies, waving as the woman walks away. “You southerners are always a season and a half behind Tevinter. And you Dalish are a few centuries behind that.”

“Or we’re a few centuries ahead of you. Vivienne always says fashion works in cycles.” Lavellan says, sniffing at Dorian’s glass. “This smells nice. It must taste terrible.”

“You are so terribly uncultured. I do adore you.” Dorian curls an arm around her waist, resting his head against her side. “You smell like mud.”

“Training ring is wet.” Lavellan explains. “Also Vivienne always says mud is good for the skin so I figure she won’t mind so much. What are those?”

“What Orlesians think is good food, probably. I haven’t touched them. I don’t trust her not to purposefully put something awful in them to see how I’d react.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you two get along at all or if you’re purposefully baiting each other into attempted assassination to get the other arrested or worse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. If we lost her, who in the world would I be able to argue with about anything  high class? You can’t argue with Josephine. That’s unheard of.”

-

“What are you doing?” Cullen says when he finds Lavellan curled up half underneath one of the scraggy bits of plant that Skyhold’s garden calls a bush.

“Digging.” Lavellan says. He leans over her, gets an irritated grunt - “You are in my _light_.”

“Apologies, Inquisitor.” Cullen moves a bit and she hums, apparently appeased. The hole isn’t very large – doesn’t look like the kind of hole used for planting, and she’s using her hands - “What, may I ask, are you digging for?”

“To make a hole.” She replies. Anyone else and Cullen would think that he was being given lip, but with her he only feels a little endeared and a touch tired.

“What is the hole for?”

“What do you mean?” She says, still digging, picking out rocks and setting them in a small pile to her left.

“Well.” Cullen kneels next to her – it’s a somewhat slow process, kneeling. There’s a lot of armor that isn’t exactly made for this sort of thing and he’s only a little bit embarrassed to admit that he’s not as young as he used to be. “Usually when one digs a hole they mean to put something in it, or take something out of it. Are you going to do something with the hole?”

Lavellan turns to stare at him, eyes going wide in a way that suggests that she hadn’t actually thought about what to do with the hole now that she has it.

Her mouth hangs open a little bit and Cullen can actually see her trying to think of an answer.

“You can put this in it.” Cole says, startling them both. Lavellan turns -

“ _Cole!”_

“I’m sorry.” Cole says, and the thing is that he actually means it every time. “But I thought you could put this in your hole. It needed a home. And your hole needs something to love, nurture, surround, supply, sustain.”

Cullen glances down to see a peach pit in Cole’s hand.

“You’re a genius.” Lavellan says, plucking the pit out of his palm and delicately placing it in the hole. The three of them stare at the peach pit. “It should go down deeper, shouldn’t it?”

“Do you want me to get you a shovel?” Cullen asks.

“Yes please.” Lavellan says, returning to staring at the peach pit. “I’ve never planted a fruit tree before.”

“The Inquisition is a place of new experiences for us all, Inquisitor.” Cullen replies, pushing himself to standing. “I, for one, never thought I’d be gardening in the middle of the frost backs.”


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm hoping to get them to meet in the gardens. Right next to Morrigan." Leliana continues, "Then perhaps I'll have them walk the battlements towards the Commander's rooms."

"You're good at this." Bull says, "Got a nice act going here. Took me a while to catch on. Which is saying something."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about." Lavellan idly sorts out piles of fabric, string, and seeds on the bench next to him, brow furrowed in concentration. "Which do you think looks better?"  
  
"Cherry pit and plaid weave." Bull replies, mouth twitching up as she sorts the seeds next to the fabric swatch. "Yeah. I'm on to you. You've got a good portion of Thedas tangled around your fingers. And about, I don't know, ninety percent of those people think you're being tricked into it and need to be protected at all costs. Like a baby animal. _Tricky_ _bas_."  
  
"I don't know what that word means, Bull." Lavellan kicks the foot dangling over the edge of the bench, holding up two identical - to him, at least - pieces of twine for examination as she sticks her hands out the window for better light.  
  
Bull hums. "Tricky bas."  
  
"Repeating it won't make me know what it means _faster_." She says, apparently making a decision on twine and starts tying a little pouch of cherry pits with plaid weave. "Seriously."  
  
" _Seriously_ , you're a manipulative little shit and I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out."  
  
Lavellan stands up on the bench and starts tying the pouch to his left horn.  
  
"I take offense to you calling me a shit."  
  
"But not manipulative or little?"  
  
"Josephine says that when in doubt I should say nothing." Lavellan puts a foot on his thigh, pushing with her heel. "Besides, I'm fairly certain that you're just seeing things. Krem says you do that a lot."  
  
"Krem blows shit out of his mouth." Bull replies, raising his voice a little, so Krem can fucking hear it because he goddamn well knows it.  
  
"That sounds disgusting." Lavellan drops down onto the bench again, leaving her foot on his thigh. She wiggles her toes and blinks up at him, a little knot of bone and skin with wide eyes. Fuck. He's pretty sure that either -  
  
A. The Dalish were completely and _totally_ aware of Lavellan's preternatural ability to bend people to her will by tangling them up as easily as she tangles herself up. So they sent her to get rid of her before she destroyed them all.  
  
B. Or they sent her to the Conclave in the hopes she would enslave the human race and make them all her thralls.  
  
C. Or The Dalish weren't aware and Lavellan's come into her own and is now using that power to slowly take over the fuckin' world  
  
"Have I ever told you how glad I am that I'm on your good side?"  
  
Lavellan beams at him. "No. But you know, if I were Dorian, I would say something along _all_ of my sides being my good side."  
  
"Good thing you aren't Dorian, then, isn't it?" Bull says, tapping her underneath her chin. Like a cat. Lavellan even closes her eyes and makes a little chirping sound to go with it. Bull snorts. "Get out of here. Go outside and scare the shit out of someone. I don't think you've done that today."  
  
"Alright." Lavellan says,  before climbing out the window, landing with a quiet sounding  _thump_.  
  
Bull waits a few seconds before calling out to Krem - "We need to get her a fucking contract for the Chargers. I need it to happen. Imagine all the fucking shit we could get away with if we had that on our team."  
  
"We might have to change our name." Krem replies. "Bull's Wanderers. Bull's Meanderers. Bull's Occasionally Gets Lost Looking for Exit-ers. Bull's It's a Dalish Thing-ers."  
  
-  
  
"The King and the Inquisitor have been exchanging letters." Leliana says and Josephine almost drops her teacup.  
  
" _What_?"  
  
"You want to read them? I'm considering forwarding copies to the Warden and Zevran." Leliana continues and Josephine -  
  
"Did no one think to consult me when they came up with the idea of letting the Herald go about writing letters to the King of Ferelden _unsupervised and uncensored_?"  
  
Lavellan's grasp on propriety is weak at best and her tendency to ramble is very, _very_ strong.  
  
Leliana just gives her one of those _looks_ and pulls a small package of papers out of her belt. "So you _don't_ want to read them?"  
  
"Of _course_ I want to read them. I have to figure out what to do to fix anything she might have done on accident."  
  
"They're friends." Leliana snorts, "Or at least, they're both _my_ friends. It's _fine,_ Josie. They just talk about random things. Alistair's penmanship is even influencing the Inquisitor's. I thought you'd be pleased by that."  
  
Josephine unties the package, flipping open the first letters and - "This is remarkable improvement. I just thought she'd been taking more time to write the letters out."  
  
"No, she's _copying_ his letters." Leliana replies, "I don't blame her. Alistair's handwriting has always been oddly lovely."  
  
Josephine gets through half of the first letter - "Are you sure this is the _King of Ferelden_?"  
  
"Of course I'm sure." Leliana huffs. "I helped put him on the throne and everything."  
  
"I am beginning to understand why you are not worried about political consequence." Josephine says, torn between extreme delight and dismay over the letters. On one hand - it's like Lavellan is talking to herself, on the other hand -  
  
It's like _Lavellan_ is talking to _herself_.  
  
"Someday I want to get them both here in person." Leliana says, "It would be glorious."  
  
"Someone might attempt to kill you for it."  
  
"I'm hoping to get them to meet in the gardens. Right next to Morrigan." Leliana continues, "Then perhaps I'll have them walk the battlements towards the Commander's rooms."  
  
"Someone will _definitely_ attempt to kill you for that."  
  
Leliana laughs, "Oh, but it would be worth it."  
  
"It would." Josephine agrees. "We need to make it happen."  
  
-  
  
"I think it's cute."  
  
"I think that I almost cut half her face off without knowing."  
  
"I think that she trusts you to have more control than that."  
  
Cullen lets out a slightly wounded and horrified noise. Josephine quickly backtracks -  
  
"By which I mean, she believes in you."  
  
"Which makes it _worse_ that I almost cut half her face off." Cullen says, "She makes no sound when she moves. Somehow she's almost always talking but she makes _no sound_ when she moves. And no one told me she was right there. Maker's breath, I don't think she even realized how close she was to missing half her face."  
  
"It was you, she probably knew you had good control and she wasn't in danger." Leliana says, scribbling down a few notes as she examines the war table. "And she wasn't wrong. You stopped the swing in time with about an inch to spare."  
  
Josephine wonders how Leliana knows that bit and decides to let it go.  
  
"In any event," Josephine says, "She's unharmed and completely fine. She's chasing nugs around the lake. No harm done."  
  
"This time." Cullen sighs, running a hand through his hair and sending it up at all angles. Josephine resists the urge to giggle a little. He looks like a ruffled cat. "What if she wasn't following someone in control?"  
  
"That's what we have scouts for." Leliana says, looking up as if to say - _do you doubt my people?_  
  
"It's dangerous." Cullen says. Josephine wonders if anyone has ever told the Commander that sometimes he pouts. It's very attractive on him.  
  
"It's fine. Besides, if we are to be sending her to warzones and unknown territory we shouldn't be so worried about her being in danger." Leliana replies. "And she's Dalish. She's survived in danger this long."  
  
"That feels like tempting fate when you say it like that."  
  
"Fate has already favored her once, Commander." Josephine reminds him.  
  
"I'd rather not tempt it again." Cullen replies. "Honestly, how does she even move so quietly?"  
  
"A lot of practice sneaking out of camp to scare shemlen."  
  
Cullen startles, and Josephine almost drops her clipboard. Leliana smirks.  
  
Josephine and Cullen both turn to see Lavellan's head sticking through the doors to the Chantry proper, she blinks at them before thrusting her arms - and a dark brown nug - into the room.  
  
"I found a brown nug! Can we keep it?"  
  
Leliana coos.


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan flings herself to the balcony to check, she - presumably - does see him because she starts waving.

"It's something like this," Blackwall tries to explain as he and Varric sort through things in the Inquisitor's room, "These things belong to people. If you take them without asking first, it's stealing. Even if you're friends with who you took it from, or even if that person isn't using it at that moment."  
  
"But - "  
  
"He's right, Poppy. These things might be important to people, you don't know unless you ask. I mean, how would you feel if I asked to use your staff? The nice one that Dagna made special just for you?"  
  
Blackwall glances up and sees Lavellan's expression of extreme sadness before she picks up said staff and thrusts it at Varric. "Okay. I trust you, you can use it. But you're short and I'm worried you might hurt yourself."  
  
Blackwall snorts and Varric sighs. "That's not - _alright_. I don't _actually_ want the staff, kid."  
  
"Oh." Lavellan looks a little relieved, but mostly confused as she hugs the staff to her chest.  
  
"It was an example." Blackwall says, snorts when he opens a box and finds all the earrings Madame Vivienne has been complaining about going missing. He has half a mind to leave them and let the woman continue to think it was the birds who've been taking them. "The point is that it didn't feel very good, did it? Because it was _yours_."  
  
"It doesn't matter if it was mine." Lavellan huffs, obligingly pulling down boxes for Varric to go through from on top of her bookshelf -  which, Blackwall is fairly certain, is full of books she's taken from everyone else. He thinks he'll just ask Dorian or Cassandra to sort through that. "Because what's mine is the Inquisition's and what's the Inquisition's is mine."  
  
"That's because you _are_ the Inquisition." Varric points out. Lavellan shoots him an odd look.  
  
"So are you."  
  
"Uh. _No_." Varric coughs, "I'm your friend. I'm not Inquisition. Either way, you're the Inquisitor of the Inquisition.  That makes you the boss. It's different for the little people. And I _don't_ just mean dwarves."  
  
"Oh." Lavellan starts juggling some acorns. "So. I should - ask first? Even if they're not using it?"  
  
"Yes." Blackwall says, reaching underneath her desk and finding one of his old tunics. He thought that it got thrown out. "Do so."  
  
"But what about when we're out of Skyhold? We always find those chests and crates and boxes. Who do I ask when I take stuff out of those? What about bodies? Should I ask even though the person is dead?"  
  
Blackwall makes eye contact with Varric and mouths _Cullen_. Varric smirks and dips his head.  
  
"You know who'd be great at answering these questions, Poppy?"  
  
"You?"  
  
"Cullen." Varric corrects, "Who's _outside_. On such a lovely day. Full of good sunshine. Probably in the training yard and everything, getting all that sun. Why don't you ask him and get some fresh air, while Hero and I clean up this stuffy room?"  
  
Lavellan flings herself to the balcony to check, she - presumably - does see him because she starts waving.  
  
"Okay, I'm going to go do that now." She says, running and jumping down the stairs, "I'll be back soon though, maybe, I'll try to be at least, also there's a nug around here somewhere, please be kind to him."  
  
-  
  
"Boss, you're so tiny." Bull sighs as Lavellan rests her chin on his shoulder.  
  
"All the better for you to carry me, I guess." She says, twisting and turning to look around before putting her head back on his shoulder. It's true. Bull can carry her tucked into the crook of one arm. And still have room left over to carry her pack, his pack, and maybe Rocky in the same arm. "Why am I being carried again?"  
  
"Becomes sometimes I feel better when I got you where I can see you." Bull says, "And knowing you won't go running off and tripping over a wyvern nest or some shit like that."  
  
"Oh. Okay." He feels Lavellan poking and prodding at one of his scars. "If it makes you feel better then. Where did this one come from?"  
  
"Why don't you try and guess, and I'll tell you when you get it right." He got it in Seheron, but she's probably never going to get there.  
  
"Was it a nug?" Yup. _Probably_ never going to get there.  
  
"Nope. How'd a nug get me a scar like that? Kind of high up."  
  
"Did you see the nugs we got for the stables? They could make a scar like that." Lavellan says. Bull really, really pities Dennet sometimes.  He signed up for horses. Instead he got murderous lizards and giant nugs. "Oh, oh, oh, is it from a nugalope?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Nugs have such strange little hands, Bull. They have teeny fingers." Lavellan waves her hand in his face. "Teeny fingers!"  
  
Bull catches her hand and tucks it against her, "Yup. Kind of creepy, huh?"  
  
"Bull are we lost?"  
  
Bull has a general idea of where camp is, but he has no idea where Sera and Dorian are. He's been trying to make his way back to where they were before they got separated, but these fucking cliffs and hills are making it really hard and he's considering just heading back to the closest camp and hoping the other two do the same.  
  
"Nope. Dorian and Sera are."  
  
Lavellan is quiet for all of two minutes - two minutes in which she just traces scars, twists and turns like a cat, and generally attempts to squirm out of his grip - before she says, "Bull?"  
  
"Yeah, boss?"  
  
"Can I get down now?"  
  
"Depends, you gonna run off, skid down a cliff and start collecting elfroot?"  
  
Lavellan falls silent again.  
  
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Bull snorts. He loves his boss, really. His tiny little sarebas boss. But sometimes. _Sometimes_. "You're staying right where you are until I figure out how to find the other two. Then I'm hauling all three of you back to camp and going to sleep."  
  
"This is why Krem calls you a mother hen." Lavellan mutters, flinging her arms over his shoulder and mashing her face against his skin. "You're _supposed_ to be the _fun_ one."  
  
-  
  
"You know I adore you to little pieces, right?" Dorian says as Lavellan continues to pelt Solas with little pieces of paper for him. "The tiniest little pieces that you can't even see but only imagine."  
  
"Of course you do." She replies, "I'm your _favorite_."  
  
Which really shouldn't say very much, given the somewhat slim pickings around Skyhold. But still.  
  
"I'd pick you any day." He says, continuing to scribble out notes before ripping them and crushing them into balls for her to throw down below. The best part is that Solas can't even get _mad_. Dorian is getting the notes down there in a timely manner, after all. And Solas has a weak point for Cole and Lavellan. If he's going to get mad at them he's going to turn into a lesson on deep mushrooms or something or other. He won't actually yell at them. It's the perfect way to annoy the crabby bald painter down below. A perfect start to the day.  
  
"I'd pick you, too." Lavellan says, "You're my favorite also, but don't tell Cassandra that."  
  
"Why, does she think that she's the favorite? Have you been leading us all on behind each other's backs into thinking we're the favorite? Sneaky little elf."  
  
"No, don't be silly. Everyone knows you're my favorite." Lavellan snorts a laugh, a delightful sound that carries and echoes a bit around the rotunda. Again, perfect, because no one can get mad at her for laughing. No one. Even if it's rather loudly done in a library. Because it's her. It's just her and who in their right mind would get upset at the Inquisitor for laughing in her own damned castle? "I mean - I don't think she wants you to be my favorite. I think she's hoping that Josephine or Cullen become my favorite so that she doesn't have to worry so much. You make me make terrible decisions sometimes. Apparently. I'm not too sure on that. I think we make wonderful decisions together. I mean, we're here, aren't we? Good on us."  
  
"Good on us, indeed." Dorian says, peering over the railing to catch a glimpse of the elf. He's retreated to sitting in his arm chair and letting the paper hit the back of the tall thing and pile around the floor. Spoil sport. "Let's move around to the other side."  
  
Lavellan snickers.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've found," Dorian gasps, reaching out to steady himself on Stitches, "Her off mechanism."

"You've found," Dorian gasps, reaching out to steady himself on Stitches, "Her _off_ _mechanism_."  
  
Cullen raises an eyebrow, turns around and reaches across the gap between tables to touch the base of her skull with his thumb, lightly pressing against the small indentation there. The entire table watches as Lavellan's hands drop mid-conversation and her face returns to it's default vaguely confused and mostly curious expression.  
  
"Andraste's flaming _sword_." Krem says, eyebrows slowly climbing up his face, "I'm tempted to call blood magic, here. As a Tevinter, I feel as if I have the authority to do that."  
  
Cullen removes his thumb and Lavellan's hands spring up and her mouth resumes talking at a few thousand words per second as she chatters at Dalish about something or other. It's a lot of elven, hand gestures, and giggling. No one's exactly sure what they're talking about and no one is going to ask. Chances are they'll lie anyway.  
  
"How did you do it?" Rocky asks, "Because I'm pretty sure everyone's been trying to figure that one out since day one, and I had placed my bets on kissing her."  
  
"No one would _kiss_ her." Stitches points out.  
  
"I know, but I figured that if no one was gonna do it then no one would know if that was it or not, and if nothing else worked, I'd win by default." Rocky says. "I owe the Chief thirty fucking gold sovereigns and an entire cask. An entire bloody _cask_. Of the _good_ stuff, he said."  
  
"Shouldn't have bet against the Chief." Krem snorts, "That's just what you deserve."  
  
"Can we go back to the point where we've found the Inquisitor's off mechanism?" Dorian says, "I'm feeling light headed. It's like learning that - I don't know. Bears can walk on two legs and then seeing one. In _theory_ you know they could. But then to see it actually happen makes you think you've run straight into a wall and killed yourself or knocked your brain out of your ear."  
  
"How small is your brain that it can get knocked out the ear?"  
  
Dorian glares, "If you weren't always wearing armor, I would kick you right now."  
  
"That's probably why I always wear the armor." Krem replies.  
  
"Probably?"  
  
" _Or_ I just feel safe in it." Krem shrugs, "I'm not telling."  
  
"A man of mystery." Stitches says, "And bullshit."  
  
"I think this is something we ought not to be spreading." Cullen says.  
  
"That Krem is a man of mystery and bullshit? Because that one is a little too late. I mean, anyone could see that one from leagues away." Rocky says, dodging a swat upside the head.  
  
"I meant the Inquisitor's - _ah_ \- off switch." Cullen says.  
  
"He's got a point. If everyone knew then it's be a vulnerability. Also it's fun watching people get run roughshod by her. People that are not _me_." Stitches says, Grim grunts in agreement, making eye contact with each of them before getting up for a refill. "Also it probably takes someone special - as in, someone she knows - to be able to even touch said switch."  
  
"She knows half of Skyhold's entire family histories by heart." Cullen says, "She writes my _sister_ letters every month. She's got a better rapport with my family than I do."  
  
"Us." Dorian snorts. "Stitches means _us_. As in - we, the people of her so called inner circle,  are probably the only people who can get to said off mechanism unscathed. Also, if it makes you feel better, she's apparently built a rapport with the _King of Ferelden_. I'm completely certain there is no one in Thedas who's safe from her wiles."  
  
-  
  
Lavellan is playing with buttons, idly sorting them out in various different ways, pushing buttons along the stone floor into little piles and rows. No single button has stayed in the same pile or row for more than five minutes, so at this point, Josephine is fairly certain that it's more of a game than an actual attempt at sorting buttons.  
  
"May I ask where you got so many buttons, your worship?"  
  
"Krem gave them to me." She replies. "When he was making the nugs. He uses buttons for eyes. I think that they're charming. Can you imagine having buttons for eyes, Josephine? It's a little strange and a lot scary, but mostly I think it's cute on the little nugs he made. He said he'd make me a mabari one if I could get the Iron Bull to have a tea party with me. How do you think I'd go about that? I don't think the Iron Bull likes tea very much. _I_ don't even like tea very much."  
  
"If you asked him, I'm sure he'd do it for you." Josephine says. And she wonders where Krem got all the buttons. She imagines the man carrying an entire bag of buttons with him everywhere and quickly banishes the thought before she can laugh and completely lose it.  
  
"This button reminds me of you." Lavellan says, pushing up onto her knees and shuffling her way over to Josephine's desk. Her long fingers gently place a deep blue button on her desk, in a square of light from the window. It's a deep inky blue and shimmers, revealing glints of gold and pink and cream in it. "It's very fancy. But it's also very calming. I like looking at it in the sunlight. I have a lot of buttons that remind me of you, but this button is the one that reminds me of you _most_."  
  
Josephine smiles, picking up the button, running the pad of her thumb over it. It's smooth, warm from Lavellan's hand, it feels like lacquer.  
  
"It's very beautiful. I think a nug would be very happy to have this as his button eye." Josephine says.  
  
Lavellan laughs, going back to her rows and piles of buttons.  
  
"You should have that one." Lavellan says.  
  
"But it reminds you of me. I don't need a reminder of _me_." Josephine replies, standing up - stretching her back and arms as she takes in a breath. "Do you have one that reminds you of you? I'd rather have that one."  
  
Lavellan hums, turning her gaze down to the buttons.  
  
"I don't know. They all remind me of other people. Not _me_." She says, poking at the piles and rows.  
  
Josephine goes over to sit next to her on the floor, bowing her head next to Lavellan's to inspect the buttons. She realizes, now, that there are an exact number of piles of buttons to correspond to her number of close friends.  
  
"What about this one?" Josephine says, pointing at a very small button, creamy yellow and white with a streak of golden brown running through it. It sits between a pile of fancy gold buttons with filigree and crests, and wooden or deep colored buttons.  
  
"I don't know about that one yet." Lavellan says, "It's too soft to be Vivienne, but it's too warm to be hahren."  
  
"Could I have that one?" Josephine asks. "It's the one that reminds _me_ of _you_ most."  
  
Lavellan picks up the button, seems to weigh it in her palm. She looks very serious as she stares at it before nodding and handing it to Josephine.  
  
"Okay, you can take that button for me, and I'll take the blue button for you."  
  
-  
  
"She's sleeping." Cassandra says, not looking up from her book when she hears the stair creak. "And her fever is the same as it was ten minutes ago when Cole came by."  
  
"Yeah, I figured." Bull says, "Still wanted to check in on her, anyways. Good reading, Seeker?"  
  
Cassandra throws a glare at him and he grins, raising his hands before sobering as his eyes flick to the small, curled up lump on the bed.  
  
"All of Skyhold is going to go crazy without her." Bull says, sitting at the foot of the bed. "I don't think people realized how much she grew on them until now. The day just isn't complete if you don't see an elf running around carrying something strange or dropping down from the ceiling."  
  
Skyhold is, due to its high ceilings and stone walls, good with sound. Sound carries, it echoes, it magnifies. It is not a _quiet_ castle. People are constantly in and out. Fires are always being stoked, started, stopped. Wind whistles through unrepaired walls and windows, rattles the iron chains of chandeliers and glass window panes. Chairs scrape, minstrels sing, nobles rustle and whisper and argue through hallways. Birds coo and chirp, Mothers and Sisters chant and offer advice, soldiers march and drill, and there are even the sounds of children. Doors open and close, squeaking or scraping against the floor, steel rings out as the blacksmiths work, pages rustle as scholars and dignitaries work to build the Inquisition's base of power.  
  
Skyhold is never quiet.  
  
But somehow it feels that way without the Inquisitor adding her own noise to the mechanism of Skyhold. By all rights, any sound she makes - so young, so small - should be swallowed up by all the other yawning sounds. But they aren't. They stand out.  
  
Cassandra taps the spine of  the book on her knee, finger holding her place.  
  
"She will be better. Sooner or later."  
  
Skyhold seems to hold its breath, all of the normally loud sounds muted and hushed, moving on tip-toe, while waiting for her Inquisitor's health to recover.  
  
"Yeah." Bull says, "We all know. She's a stubborn and hearty kid. Just quiet in the mean time. She fills up a lot of space for someone so tiny."  
  
"She _makes_ space." Cassandra replies.  
  
"That, too." Bull agrees. "You doing alright up here, Seeker? You could switch out. I know Dorian and Sera are both dying a little on the inside to get in here."  
  
Cassandra snorts, "That's why I'm not letting them in. Too much excitement. I just got her asleep."  
  
-


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you miss your Tama?" She asks, cheek slowly puffing out with bread. Like a squirrel, but with magic and can set you on fire.

Lavellan has been going on for the better part of half an hour about why she's been running around all of Thedas looking for tiny caves with flowers and Cullen still hasn't quite understood the entire point, and the way things are going she could go on for at least two more hours so -  
  
"I'm sorry, could you please - " Cullen waves his hand as he interrupts her, "I'm sorry. Inquisitor, could you please shorten this?"  
  
Lavellan pauses, blinks, thinks about it, then bobs her head and puts her hands on her hips.  
  
"Tiny cave people." She says, proud and delighted as she beams at him.  
  
Cullen blinks. And - he's really going to need more than that to understand anything. It seems something of a leap from tiny caves with flowers to tiny cave people. The tiny cave part he gets, but the rest of it, not so much.  
  
"Alright, never mind, please continue where you were before."  
  
Lavellan hums, pleased, and returns to where she was in her previous explanation of the reasons why she spent a good month scouring the Exalted plains - it wasn't a waste of resources, she was doing other things, too, while looking for the tiny cave. Cullen and Josephine just thought that she was being extremely productive. Though, in hindsight, he should have realized she was being strangely methodical in her clockwork sweep of the plains. It wasn't practicality, she was looking for something. And this is probably why Leliana looked so sly at the time. - before realizing she was supposed to be in the Emerald Graves. And then why she kept wandering around the stream because she never saw the painting that would give her directions, and she finally found it behind a tree after getting attacked by a few dozen bears.  
  
Cullen doesn't think he knows anyone who gets attacked by more wildlife than the Inquisitor.  
  
He's never fought a bear in his life - and doesn't want to start.  
  
Everyone always says it's Cassandra, but he's beginning to wonder if maybe the Inquisitor is what tips the wildlife off.  
  
Lavellan continues talking, and while they're at it, Cullen figures he could probably get some rounds done so he gently touches her elbow and they start walking. Lavellan meanders around, voice raising so he can still here her as she leans over a wall or sticks her head inside a door. She starts weaving little rings of flowers that she's pulled out from her pocket - her story, now having meandered to how she found a dragon and why she had to go after it right then -  
  
"Bull just looked so _excited_ , Cullen. How could I say _no_?"  
  
\- and then to how she found a dead body with the helmet of a dead Inquisitor -  
  
"I don't think it fits me very well and I can't see very much but  Cassandra and Bull say I should wear it anyway."  
  
\- and then tapering off at how she ended up in a haunted Chateau.  
  
"The notes were  very disturbing, Cullen. I mean, I _think_ they were. The writing was all done in Orlesian. I had Bull read it to me but he might have been censoring it. He does that sometimes. I don't know _why_."  
  
Cullen knows exactly why and he's not going to tell her.  
  
"So now what do you do?" Cullen asks, and he was right. It did take her another two full hours to explain the tiny cave people theory.  
  
"Well." Lavellan says, "Now I have to find the place the tiny cave people want me to go. I have a good feeling about the Emprise."  
  
-  
  
"Is it true that Qunari don't have mothers and fathers?" Lavellan asks, legs swinging underneath the table as she cautiously peers into his tankard. Bull tilts it towards her so she can get the full viewing-smelling experience.  
  
"We do, we just don't know who they are." Bull says, laughing as she takes a cautious sniff then recoils, hand covering her nose as her eyes water.  
  
"Don't you ever wonder?" You do not wonder in the Qun, he almost replies.  
  
"Nah. We had our Tama, and that was kind of like having a a mother. I guess. I mean, based on when the rest of you guys talk about your moms it sounds similar." Bull says, instead, breaking a loaf of bread in half and giving  her the slightly smaller end. She takes it in her hands and starts picking at it, cautiously eyeing his tankard. "Don't worry, Boss, this one isn't for you. Not yet, at least. I think you've got a ways to go before you work your way up to the big stuff."  
  
She relaxes a little.  
  
"Do you miss your Tama?" She asks, cheek slowly puffing out with bread. Like a squirrel, but with magic and can set you on fire.  
  
Bull thinks of white hair and curving horns, a strong arm bracing him on a hip, a low voice - _Anaan esaam Qun_. Victory inthe Qun. He thinks of large palms and dark eyes, a softly curving mouth, and a string of numbers.  
  
"Sometimes." Bull says, "It's easier not to."  
  
" _Oh_." Lavellan looks down at the table, slowly chewing away at the ball of bread tucked into her cheek. "I miss my mama and papa, sometimes. But I don't think the others do."  
  
Bull turns his body to give her his full attention. "Yeah? What makes you think that?"  
  
"Well. Dorian only talks about how much he doesn't like his family and whenever he talks about home or childhood he makes this little angry huff." Lavellan says, the ball of bread in her cheek slowly wearing down as she chews and swallows. "Cullen doesn't even write his sister. Cassandra doesn't ever talk about her family except when people bring up that she's royalty. Sera hates talking about herself. All I know about hahren is that he was once a young man with hair and an attitude. Madame Vivienne only ever talks about the Circle and says that life before it didn't matter. Varric only ever talks about Bertrand when he talks about his past. And I don't even know if Cole remembers or misses human Cole's parents. Blackwall dislikes speaking of his past in general and gets irritated when I try to ask."  
  
Lavellan slowly stuffs more pieces of bread into her cheek.  
  
"So I was wondering if maybe _you_ missed your parents but then I remembered you're a Qunari and Krem says you didn't have any. And then I thought that maybe I'm the only one who misses my parents. And that made me feel lonely."  
  
Sometimes Bull forgets that this is Lavellan's first time away from home. Away from everyone and everything she knows. The girl can be so brash sometimes. So confident and at ease. She slips into people's lives like she was meant to be there.  
  
"Want to know a secret, boss?" He says, leaning towards her. She looks up at him, eyes sparking with that curiosity that's probably going to get her in a heap of trouble someday. Probably _tomorrow_. " _Everyone_ misses their parents. They might not say it or talk about it, but they do. They just keep it locked up inside, because they're embarrassed to say it."  
  
" _Why_?"  
  
"Because they're funny like that." Bull says, "Even me. But we miss the people we grew up with. The people who took care of us. We just try not to, because now _we're_ the ones taking care of people. And you don't want to the people you're taking care of thinking that you're sad or something because then they worry and that means you didn't do such a good job of taking care of them."  
  
"That's silly." Lavellan says, nose wrinkling as she swallows another cheekful of bread. "We're all meant to take care of each other."  
  
"Yeah, I know, right? But you can't help what you feel sometimes." Bull presses his thumb to the dip between her eyebrows. "But don't sweat it. I promise. You aren't the only one who misses home and the people who love you."  
  
-  
  
"You did the right thing." Solas says as Lavellan glares at the fresco, still drying, on the wall.  
  
"All of you thought I was a stupid _child_ and that I wasn't good enough to drink from it. You don't even _like_ Morrigan." Lavellan snaps. "You called her a glutton."  
  
"Glutton she may be," Solas replies, "She wasn't lying when she said she knew more than you."  
  
"Everything she said in the temple was wrong. And she kept talking at me like I was a un-lined babe." Lavellan kicks her heel, wrinkling her nose. "And then she said I would squander the well and you agree with her. And worse - I didn't fight back. I _let_ you. I let the both of you treat me like a child. Worse than a child, an uncultured shem."  
  
She turns onto him,  hands small fists at her sides.  
  
"I'm not _deaf_. I know what people think of me. They think I'm _daft_. They think that I'm daft and foolish and a child. They think that I'm ignorant and weak willed. _Unstable_. I'm _not_. I've done things. I was a murderer long before I joined this Inquisition. I've helped women give birth. I've almost died before. Long before this orb and Corypheus and this stupid mark. I've fought with less than a tree branch and a piece of stone."  
  
Lavellan glares at her own palm.  
  
"Just because I couldn't read or write like a shem, just because I didn't know what fork to use for beef or fish or because I'd never been inside a stone building or slept on a raised bed, I'm stupid to you. _Everyone_."  
  
"It is not that you are stupid, da'len." Solas touches the tips of his fingers to her closed fist. She opens her hand, the faint green light of the dormant anchor tinting their skin a faint green. "It is true that we look on you as younger, inexperienced, in need of guidance. But no one here is foolish enough to think you _incapable_. You learn quickly and you adapt and make things your own. You are creative and think quickly. You lead with a firm hand and you inspire and demand respect. It is simply that there are things you do not know. Things that would take you years to learn and study. Things that you have not had time for. Morrigan may be a glutton,  but she was right. She studied things beyond your grasp. She is older, she has seen more and done more than you. Perhaps, in time, you too will learn what she has. But your years of living are short and still adding together. Be mad at her for speaking to you like a child, but do not be upset with her for knowing what you have not had a chance to learn yet."  
  
Lavellan's mouth is still a firm line that distorts and twists her kind features. A mismatch. As if someone had cut off her mouth and chin, and replaced it with the image of another's.  
  
"If I offended you," Solas continues, "I apologize. _Ir abelas, da'len_. It was not my intent. Know that I did not wish you to drink from the well for your safety. I did not want you bound. You are - you are a gentle spirit and a kind one. And you are young. I would not see you bind yourself to something unknown for the rest of your years for this."  
  
Lavellan's mouth wavers.  
  
"You don't think I'm dumb, then?"  
  
"No. Sometimes distracted, yes. But never dumb." Solas rests his hand on her head, carding his fingers through her hair. "Better?"  
  
Lavellan is still for a moment before nodding, "Better. But I may still come back to yell about Morrigan some more."  
  
Solas can't help the smile as he nods, "I look forward to it."


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell that to her." Krem says, standing up to help Dalish carry drinks. "I'm pretty sure she has her heart set on Hiccup. Don't ask why."

"And this is the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor Lavellan." Josephine finishes, gesturing to where she hopes the Herald is. She had asked Lavellan to wait there but the chances of her actually being there when there is no one to keep an eye on her and remind her why she's staying in a certain location for more than fifteen minutes at a time is slim.  
  
"That's the Herald?" King Alistair raises an eyebrow, "She looks rather _sleepy_ , doesn't she?"  
  
Josehpine turns to look, and Lavellan's eyes are half closed and she's staring - vacantly - out a window, which, she supposes, isn't a very bad impression to make. Lavellan tends to - when not in the middle of asking questions as fast as she can think them  - look rather sleepy. It's serene in its own way.  
  
"I don't think she looked quite _that_ tired the last time I saw her." The King muses, "But I could be wrong, seeing as I was busy yelling and being _Kingly_ and what-not at the time. Is she awake? How long has the poor girl been sitting here? Has she and the chair become one being? Also, if Leliana attempts to mock me for my state of Ferelden dress - not _my_ choice, by the way, though it is warmer than what a majority of _your_ people have on, did you notice the fact that there's a half-naked _Qunari_ in your tavern? _No_? Just me? The Qunari I know tend to wear shirts. - I'm going to point out that she's dressed the Herald of Andraste in _beige_ _sleepwear_."  
  
Josephine takes a moment to marvel, because as the King slowly talks - and shows Josephine exactly why Leliana was so set on dragging the King to Skyhold, or forcing Lavellan's way into his courtroom - Lavellan slowly perks up, sitting - crouched - on top of the chair, looking something like the Poppy flower Varric always calls her.  
  
"You're _Alistair_!" She says, standing on the chair, hands waving at her sides as she blooms into a smile. "Hello! You're a _King_! Your hair is nice - you look very tired, hello, do you have a dog? Cullen says that you're a dog lord and everyone says that _everyone_ in Ferelden has a dog at some point in their life, where is _your_ dog? May I pet your dog? You _do_ have a dog, don't you? Your clothes look warm, do all Fereldens put fur on everything, because Cullen has a _huge_ fur pelt - " Lavellan gestures with her arms, "And it smells a little damp but it's nice to touch and I asked _permission_ so it's alright and don't get the wrong idea, people are _always_ getting the wrong idea - oh have you met Rex the nug yet? He's very brown, are there dark brown nugs in Ferelden, I'd only ever seen the pink ones before Rex, how was your trip?"  
  
As she's talking Alistair is more than keeping up with her, he's slipping his own questions in and he's walking towards her and he's looking up and she's looking down and both of their hands are flying in gestures.  
  
"I _am_ Alistair! And _you're_ Lavellan! Do be careful on that chair, I don't trust it. It looks like it came with the castle, did it? I _am_ a King and you're an Inquisitor and we _both_ have castles and armies so I think that makes us even, have you looked into a mirror recently because you  look more tired than I do. And I think that's saying something absolutely awful about something. Not how you look. I mean. You look nice. Considering. My love has a dog, and I have an entire kennel of dogs, but the dog that I'm closest to is _her_ dog. Of course I have a dog! What kind of Ferelden would I be without a dog? He's a _mabari_ , you know, survived the Blight with us. Ostagar and all. I'm sure that if he were here and not with the Gray Wardens he would be _delighted_ for you to pet him, he was always such a ladies-dog, honestly. Did you know he stole Morrigan's underthings, once? I heard Morrigan is here and frankly I'm _terrified_ of seeing her again. I don't know about that fur part but your pants look extremely uncomfortable. I've seen pink nugs but brown nugs are Orleisan, aren't they? Oh those _Orlesians_ and their strange little nugs."  
  
Josephine stares and turns towards the door where Leliana is leaning against the door frame and smirking.  
  
"You could have warned me." Josephine says as the two continue to talk rapid fire at each other, seeming not to mind that one of them is standing on a chair.  
  
"I said that they'd get along, didn't I?" Leliana replies. "It's a shame that Zevran and Surana couldn't make it. They would have been _smitten_."  
  
Leliana laughs, light and bright in ways she hasn't laughed in what feels like ages. Josephine sighs.  
  
"I can't wait to lead them around Skyhold." Leliana continues, "Can you imagine? Morrigan is going to _scream_."  
  
-  
"I'm going to sleep here tonight." Lavellan says and Krem only sighs and tosses his covers back for her. She hums, lying down and curling up, pressing her nose against the back of Krem's neck. "I like you. You don't say things."  
  
"I think I'm being trained." Krem replies. "I can't believe I didn't realize how devious you are. Normally I'm good at that kind of thing. Spotting the sneaky ones. Like Dalish."  
  
"Dalish isn't _sneaky_." Lavellan replies, wiggling around to hook her chin over his shoulder. "She's _pretty_. And smart. And nice. You've got yourself a  really talented archer."  
  
Krem snorts. "Yeah. Archer. _Right_."  
  
"It's an elven thing." Lavellan says, patting his shoulder, "You wouldn't understand."  
  
"I'm beginning to get that, yeah." Krem replies, yawns. "Go to sleep, Boss. You've got a big day of important business tomorrow. And if you're sleeping here, I'm waking you up early for training, too."  
  
"I _always_ wake up early." Lavellan replies, moving so that she's curled on her side, her back to his. It's actually kind of nice, in a weird sort of way. "I've got to feed the horses. Except for when I _don't_ wake up early and I give them lunch instead."  
  
Krem waits until she drifts off. For someone who talks so much and is always moving, she falls asleep so easily. Maybe it's because she's always talking and moving. It's like she can sleep on command sometimes. A useful skill, definitely. Krem wonders if anyone's confirmed that yet. He'll ask the Chief tomorrow.  
  
Another thing to add to the long list of eccentricities and quirks the Inquisitor has - sleeping on command, walking on her hands, twisting herself into improbable and painful looking contortions.  
  
"You are such a softy." Rocky says from the next bed.  
  
"As if _you_ aren't, either." Krem whispers back. "Have you ever told her no? I don't think so. Go to sleep. Chances are she's going to be the one waking you up, and you're going to need your energy for that."  
-  
  
"I'm lost." Lavellan says. "Sera? Blackwall? Dorian? Can anyone hear me?"  
  
Silence. Lavellan stares at a deep mushroom and sighs. At least it's cool down here.  
  
"You know, I swear that you're the exact same mushroom I picked half an hour ago." She says to the plant, poking at one of the glowing protrusions. "You wouldn't happen to know where I am? I swear that I've been going in circles and I have no idea how to get anywhere. All the tunnels lead to places I've been before and I need to go up but whenever I go up I end up going down and sideways and this is all very, very confusing. It is a very confusing time for me."  
  
Predictably, the mushroom does not answer her.  
  
Lavellan starts cutting it off with a knife. Either someone at Skyhold will make poison with it, or Rocky will use it to make liquor. And that tends to make the Chargers happy and she likes it when they're happy though she'll probably stay out of the tavern when they're drinking it.  
  
They get _weird_ on deep mushroom wine. _Really_ weird.  
  
"I think we lost Blackwall in a tunnel. Clearly not _this_ one." Lavellan says as she's cutting away at mushroom, "And I think we lost Sera at the oasis. Dorian and I were together but then there was another tunnel and I really don't know. I'm just glad that there aren't any rifts that I can tell. I don't think I could handle a rift on my own. Also everything around here goes in circles. Every path I take leads me back to the oasis, but I want to go up. In _theory_ this should lead me back to Sera, but I think Sera is moving around because I haven't seen her."  
  
Lavellan pauses and picks up a rock and draws an arrow on the wall. Then after some thought, a crude drawing of a hand with light coming out of it.  
  
"And in theory this _should_ say that I'm going that way. But in practice, I don't know if anyone is paying attention." Lavellan says to the remains of the mushroom. "This is why I need a dog. I'm going to write this down and tell Cassandra and maybe she'll let me bring the puppies along next time. I mean, they're pretty big at this point and could use some experience, right? Right. Good talk. Goodbye mushroom." She pets it, making a face when her hand meets sticky residue, wiping it on her thigh. "May we meet again when you've grown back more pieces."  
  
Lavellan walks in the direction she drew her arrow, bracing herself to enter full sunlight once more.  
  
-  
  
"There is a large dragon's skull sitting at the end of the great hall." Dorian says, "Why?"  
  
Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and waves over at Cabot for another drink. Dorian takes this as a sign and reaches over to steal one of Krem's bottles. Krem swats at his wrist but lets him take it anyway.  
  
"The Herald defeated a dragon."  
  
"She does that quite often. Despite how many times I've yelled at her in complete hysterics not to go around antagonizing giant fire breathing lizards, yes." Dorian says, examining the bottle - "Krem, you are supposed to have _good_ taste. I am severely disappointed in you. One out of two Tevinters with good taste is less than half percent, show some country pride damn you. You're bringing down our rate of success."  
  
"I _do_ have good taste. You have questionable taste." Krem replies. "Let the Commander tell his story."  
  
"The first time we sent the remains for study." Cullen says. "The second time, we used the remains for armor and weapon material. This time, Josephine wanted to make a point."  
  
"Oh dear."  
  
"She turned the skull into a throne." Cullen presses his thumb to the center of his forehead, "A damned throne. It's ridiculous."  
  
"Lavellan is going to look like a toy doll sitting on that thing." Dorian says, exchanging the bottle he took for another one, humming because this one is at least excusably distasteful. It was a bad year for reds. "A toy doll made out of twigs."  
  
Cullen snorts. "She's delighted by it."  
  
"No." Dorian says, "She has better taste than that."  
  
"Apparently she doesn't." Krem says, "Because I saw her hugging the thing earlier and wondering what to name it."  
  
"You don't _name_ thrones." Dorian protests. "You're pulling my leg."  
  
"Tell that to her." Krem says, standing up to help Dalish carry drinks. "I'm pretty sure she has her heart set on Hiccup. Don't ask why."  
  
Dorian turns to Cullen, who sighs and answers into his ale -  
  
"Varric saw it and started laughing so hard he got Hiccups."  
  
-


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Help me." She whispers as Josephine slowly walks by and to Madame Vivienne.

"Somehow I feel incredibly justified in all of this, though I know I have absolutely no reason to be." Lavellan says, humming half a bawdry song Cullen's heard at the tavern a few times whenever Lavellan isn't supposed to be there - Cassandra, Vivienne, and Josehpine had deemed it too unseemly for her, but apparently the singing is louder than he thought or she's been sneaking in with Cole again - and returning to sorting out the various pieces of treasures she's pilfered off of dead bodies. "I know I _shouldn't_ , but I do."  
  
"That's a lovely cameo." Cullen says, rather than say anything else. He's not going to tell her how the Champion would not only pick the pockets of bandits, but would also loot templar, mage, drunks, and Qunaris as well. Sometimes while still alive. It seems like poor form and he's fairly certain that they want to give her only good examples and influences to follow. Cassandra and Vivienne are already sore at him for telling her about mabari.  
  
"Cameo." Lavellan says, rolling the word around her tongue as she runs her fingers over the surface of it. "I found it in a haunted chateau in the Emerald Graves, did I tell you I went to a haunted chateau yet?"  
  
She has, three times, each time adding a new detail she forgot and then forgetting the ones she told prior. All in all, Cullen finds himself thoroughly entertained every time she repeats a story about one of her adventures. Lavellan can recite poems, fictions, tales, odes, epics, and myths from rote memory. She doesn't miss a single word or beat and it's practically textbook. But when she talks about herself it's like she's assembling a puzzle.  
  
The first time she tells it, she lays down the edges, the hard facts and bare bones. It is exciting because all of her experiences have some sort of strange flavor to them, but there isn't much else. Just events. The second time she tells it, she fills it in a little more, adding in commentary and details from whoever was with her. And the time after that she'll add in colors, sounds, little things. So on and so forth, each time skipping over what she said before, or glossing it, and adding in something new to think about.  
  
"Yes, but tell me again, anyway." Cullen says, and Lavellan takes his hand, places the cameo in his palm, and pulls out a dangling earring that was probably also taken from the chateau.  
  
"Well, did you know that there was an entire table of food? All set and _everything_ and I would have eaten it too, if it wasn't for that meddler, _Dorian_. He didn't let me. Not even _one_ apple slice. Can you believe that? It all looked perfectly fine. And no one would have yelled at me because there was no one _there_!"  
  
-  
  
"Inquisitor." Cassandra raises an eyebrow as Lavellan attempts to creep by, curled over and turned against a wall. "What are you doing?"  
  
Lavellan's eyes flicker to her, wide and frantic, " _Um_."  
  
It is a look of guilt if Cassandra ever saw one, and the Inquisitor is absolutely terrible at hiding things sometimes. Worse than Cassandra knows she can be. It baffles her how the Inquisitor can bluff an entire table of mercenaries and soldiers at cards, but can't lie when the situation is appropriate. Sometimes to _literally_ save her life.  
  
Cassandra's eyes drop down to where Lavellan is awkwardly holding her -  
  
"What are you hiding?"  
  
There is something stuffed under Lavellan's shirt, distorting the fabric into an awkwardly shaped bulge. A _moving_ bulge.  
  
Cassandra raises her eyebrows and raises her eyes back to Lavellan's face.  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
Cassandra pointedly looks back down at the bulge. "Nothing?"  
  
"Nothing." Lavellan repeats, firmer. She attempts to stand up straighter, but the fabric of her tunic makes an ominous sound and Lavellan settles for tilting her chin up, while curled around a slightly moving lump. "Nothing to see. Um. So."  
  
Lavellan gestures for Cassandra to turn around.  
  
Cassandra scoffs, crosses her arms, and waits.  
  
Lavellan falters, "So. Um. How'd you like the latest chapter of _Swords and Shields_?"  
  
"You know perfectly well how much I enjoyed it." Cassandra says, "Cole went and told you as soon as I finished reading. What is underneath your shirt?"  
  
"Um."  
  
" _Herald_."  
  
"Promise not to get mad?" Lavellan spills out, pulling out what looks to be a raccoon - where in the world did she even get a _raccoon_ in Skyhold? - and clutching it to her chest. "Promise? Please? He just looked _lonely_ and he was hungry and we've made such good friends and he has such little _hands_ , Cassandra, look at his little hands!"  
  
Lavellan takes one of the raccoon's hands and waves it at her.  
  
On one hand, Cassandra is relieved that it isn't another nug - Leliana's nugs are mean as it is, she doesn't need to keep adding to her miniature pink army - or another puppy or kitten or duck or anything of that sort. On the other hand, Cassandra truly wishes it was instead of -  
  
_This_.  
  
Cassandra takes this to mean that the Herald is upping the ante. To be fair, she should have considered the ante upped when she brought back the dracolisk.  
  
"You are not keeping a pet raccoon."  
  
"Of course not. I don't keep _pets_. Animals are friends, Cassandra. _Friends_." Lavellan replies, the raccoon hisses in Cassandra's direction. She wonders if it has a disease, and spares a moment to be blindingly terrified for the Herald's safety and health. As the moment passes Lavellan is playing with the raccoon's hands while the raccoon attempts to grab Lavellan's nose.  
  
Like a very odd and hairy baby.  
  
Cassandra closes her eyes.  
  
There has to be someone else who can deal with this. Anyone but her.  
  
There isn't.  
  
"You are not keeping a raccoon." Cassandra says. "Raccoons don't belong in the mountains. Or in fortresses."  
  
"But he's all alone."  
  
"Give him to one of Leliana's scouts and they'll release him in the Hinterlands. In the wild." Far, far away from here. "Where he belongs. With the other raccoons."  
  
Lavellan looks a touch heartbroken before holding the raccoon up to her face. "You'll let me visit you, won't you?"  
  
The raccoon - and Cassandra wishes she were making this up - nods and strokes its paw down Lavellan's cheek. Cassandra watches as Lavellan sadly goes over to the nearest scout and hands the scout the raccoon. Cassandra gives the man credit, he doesn't even look phased by either the raccoon, being given a raccoon, or being told to take a raccoon out of Skyhold and into the wild. Like this is something that happens every day.

They really need to up the pay of their people.  
  
-  
  
Sera is starting to get worried, but just as she's about to go in, Lavellan comes up, gasping for air and coughing. She gasps, coughs, then laughs - still gasping and coughing as she laughs.  
  
"You're insane." Sera says, eyes flicking from Lavellan to the ridge she jumped off of. "You could've _died_." Sera grins, floating over to her and shoving her shoulder. "Was it as awesome as it looked?"  
  
"You looked so _scared_." Lavellan laughs, shoving back.  
  
"Oh shut up, I just saw one of my closest friends jump off a waterfall in her knickers." Sera snorts, trying to dunk Lavellan under, "And then you didn't come up! So? Good? Fun? Moment of blacking out because of death?"  
  
"Got a little worried when I kept going down." Lavellan admits, "But I came back up eventually. _Please_ , Sera, I know what I'm doing. I'm an _expert_ at this."  
  
"Going skinny in the middle of the woods? Yeah, I know. Dorian's always yellin' about it. Worried about defending your virtue or _whatever_." Sera squints up at the waterfall. "If it didn't kill you, shouldn't kill me either, right? I mean, we're both young, strappinng, amazing, ladies in our primes. Anything you can do I can do, except glowing hand thing, right?"  
  
"Go for it." Lavellan says, "Do it. Do it, Sera _, do it."_  
  
"Yeah." Sera grins, wading back to shore to climb up the waterfall. "I'm gonna fuckin' do it. I'm probably going to piss myself as I'm falling, but whatever, I'm jumping into water anyway, right?"  
  
-  
  
Josephine walks up the stairs, on her way to confer with Vivienne over some last minute details for the Winter Palace when she pauses and sees Lavellan standing underneath the mosiacs by the landing Vivienne has deemed hers.  
  
This wouldn't actually be unusual. Lavellan has taken to staring at the mosaics for hours at a time if someone doesn't drag her away first. It's rather disconcerting, because most of the mosaics aren't actually anything close to possibly being complete or understandable.But she just looks at them like she knows and won't tell.  
  
The unusual part is that Lavellan is not looking at them. She's standing, back against the wall, with three books stacked on her head, and a pair of high heels on her feet. She looks absolutely tortured.  
  
"Help me." She whispers as Josephine slowly walks by and to Madame Vivienne.  
  
Vivienne smiles, leans forward to accept a kiss on the cheek - she smells, always, like just the faintest touch of jasmines - and ushers her to sit.  
  
Josephine waits for a soft lull in conversation, a pause where Vivienne pours out more tea -  
  
"I take it her training is going well?"  
  
"Oh yes, she's made fantastic improvements." Vivienne smiles, "The problem is getting her be still without wobbling."  
  
A trial when Lavellan is in boots or her flat shoes, most likely a nightmare when she's in heels.  
  
"And the books are helping?"  
  
"Somewhat. The books are mostly there to make sure she stands straight and doesn't move her head so much." Vivienne replies and they both turn to Lavellan who's turned slightly pink in the face. Whether it's from the heels, the books, or perhaps holding in all her words, Josephine isn't exactly sure. "I have a feeling it would be better to just - have her in constant motion. She looks ever so _graceful_ when walking."  
  
"The Inquisitor does have a certain grace to her." Josephine agrees. Even when Lavellan is tripping or twisting herself into a strange contortion, she does it gracefully. Something like a very dignified mountain goat. "But she's going to have to stand still for at least introductions at the palace."  
  
"Which is why I've had her doing this." Vivienne says. "I hope it's working. With any luck, we'll have her standing before the week is out."  
  
"Most people learn to stand before they walk and run."Josephine can't help but point out.  
  
Vivienne laughs, a genuine laugh that makes her shoulders shake a little.  
  
"My dear ambassador, when has our Inquisitor ever done something as sensical as that? I do believe that she was born _running_ straight out of the womb."


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Allow me to rephrase. Perhaps you should ask someone to fetch you a ladder before you fall and crack your skull open.”

“I’m okay, you know. Not even a scratch. Well. Maybe something of a bruise – you shems hit _hard_  – but I’m alright. Honest.” Lavellan says as Cassandra frowns, examining her arm and scrubbing at her skin with a wet cloth. “The blood _isn’t mine_.”

Lavellan turns to Solas, “You know, for a bunch of people who initially thought I was a cold-blooded murderer, you’re being awfully _concerned_ over me when I kill people trying to kill me. I’ve done this _before._ I mean. I didn’t make the Conclave go weird and explode-y, but I didn’t. You know. _Survive_ the past twenty years without killing a few shems.”

Lavellan attempts to pull her arm from Cassandra’s grasp, gets a sharp admonishment, and the woman returns to gently dabbing at bruises and washing blood off her skin.

“Is anyone going to actually talk to me?”

Cassandra’s brows are drawn downward and Solas just presses cold fingers to the bruise on her cheek, giving her a small shake of the head.

“Here’s the thing, kid.” Varric says, arms crossed as he frowns at her bloody footprints. “For the past few weeks or so, we’ve kind of gotten used to seeing you as. I don’t know. Soft? Kind of young? Really childish in your own way. And when you have a certain image of someone, it also gets hard to remember how fucking dangerous that person can be. Pardon my language. But shit, kid. _Shit_.”

“They were trying to hurt me.” She says.

“We know. They were trying to hurt all of us.” Cassandra says, letting go of Lavellan’s arm to take her other one, peeling back damp leather and frowning at the purpling bruises on her thin arms. “It was self-defense. It’s not that you did something wrong.”

“It’s just that sometimes, it strikes us that you shouldn’t have to be doing that self-defense thing in the first place.” Varric says. “The world is a shitty place and sometimes it’s hard to remember that. Then something like this smacks you across the face and you’ve got to think and be a little angry for a bit.”

Lavellan opens her mouth and Varric shakes his head.

“Not at you. Just at things in general.” Varric waves his hand. “It’s not you, kid. It’s not you.”

-

Mother’s arms are always warm and always soft, welcoming, but there will never be arms like Mother’s again, must be strong for her, for Mother and for Keeper and Father and countless unnamed scattered like leaves on fire, I am strong for them, I am enduring, I am endured, I am unbowed. I am the straight arrow that flies true and home. Aim me. Direct me. Pull back the string of tension with the flames of your heart and cast me forward, I will fall far and I will carry your touch in dreams with me. I am the arrow that can never go home but carries home with me in steams and whistles.

I am my mother’s nose and my father’s eyes and my clan’s tongue and I am my infinite brother and sister’s fingertips.

Mother’s arms are always warm and soft, because she exists somewhere far away from me where the me I am now cannot reach her, because I am the me of a different time and place than the me that runs and smells the sweet-warm smell of her in the soft spaces of her, the crook over her elbow and her throat and her under-arms and the soft velvet space behind her ear.

Now I am my mother’s arms. But I do not know if I am warm and soft, always, welcome, like hers are.

Am I?

Yes. The touch of a cool, clammy hand that is familiar and welcome. Straw hats and straw in between layers of clothes and straw hair, straw men and straw boys. Shrinking small and thin.

Don’t be sad. I am not straw, anymore.

Braided grass, yellow and black. Like this, remember? Don’t you remember? We are like this. Never surrender. Family, now. I am no longer straw.

Yes. I remember. I braid us tight together in the dark under stars and I cut the pale flax from the back of your neck and I kiss you there because we are friends and I love you and I am loved by you and we are both welcoming, though neither of us are warm and soft. Yes. I remember. I remember this.

A black curl of hair pressed between pansy petals, white and purple. Deep royal violet, warm and bleeding outwards. Pressed together and gently, carefully rolled into a thin, thinner, thinning – silk about to tear – strip. Braided. You braided her, too. And the black bone like ash, you ground it into powder, pressed and rubbed and smeared into porous cloth. Him, too. You see? You remember?

Yes. Yes. _Yes_.

Welcomed into you, the darkness you hide by your velvet soft under ear, right there. See?

Yes. Yes. _Yes._

And him, and there, and her, and here, and him also, there. See?

Yes. Yes. _Yes!_

Your mother’s arms are warm and soft somewhen else but here, now, you are sprawling and curled and braided. Held. She held you somewhen else, we hold you now. You hold us, too.

Corn stalks. Straw. Hello, Cole. This is a dream.

Dreams aren’t not true, though. See? And see?

Yes. Thank you. Do I wake up now?

Only if you want to. I’m here. We are all here. Don’t forget that, even in dreams. Promise?

I promise.

-

“Careful.” Solas cautions, resting a hand on her hip as she wobbles on the teetering edge of a chair. “Might I ask what caused this misadventure?”

“I am collecting spider webs.” Lavellan says. “For the healers. You know, now that I’ve fought really  large giant spiders, I find that the normal ones don’t creep me out as much. I don’t even mind getting stuck in the webs. It used to feel really weird and creepy and shivery but now it’s just _something_.”

“Some credit has to be given to exposure therapy.” Solas replies. “Perhaps you should ask someone to fetch you a ladder.”

“The chair works fine and I can carry a chair by myself.” Lavellan says.

“Allow me to rephrase. Perhaps you should ask someone to fetch you a ladder before you fall and crack your skull open.”

“That’s _morbid_.”

“Da’len, _get a ladder_. Or at the very least, ask someone taller than you to do this. Like the Iron Bull. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind assisting you.”

“Bull’s busy.” Lavellan replies, waving a hand and almost sending herself crashing to the floor. Solas pulls her backwards and manages to catch her without falling, himself. Lavellan smiles at him before jumping out of his arms. “He has a red tie on his door and that means I shouldn’t go in.”

Solas wonders when this system was implemented and how it was explained to her, and then realizes that he doesn’t actually care to know as long as it works.

“Cole’s going and asking the spiders for permission first.” Lavellan explains, squinting up at the faintly glittering web in the corner. “And helping them relocate to better places for their webs. Dorian hates spiders unless he’s studying dead ones. And everyone else is busy doing other things. I can collect spider webs on my own.”

“A ladder.” Solas repeats. “Or someone to make sure you don’t get injured.”

He bends to set the chair back to rights and Lavellan sighs.

“ _Fine_.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“That’s what _everyone_ says.” Lavellan snorts, “Right next to _why don’t you ask Cullen_ or _we’ll see_ or _why don’t you sleep on it_ and it’s all generally meant to mean _no_. Or something along the lines of _you’re being inconceivable stop it right now_. Which is the really inconceivable thing because it is impossible to be inconceivable as if you think something is inconceivable you are defying the definition because you are _conceiving it_ as you think it.”


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blackwall?” She calls out, hesitant as she looks around, she doesn’t see him in the ring. “Krem, have you seen Blackwall?”

“This is probably very awkward. But would you happen to recall where I’ve left my smalls? I actually don’t know, I just woke up with them missing. As in, they weren’t on my body. They should’ve been, but they weren’t. And I’m hoping you would know where they are because you normally know these things. I mean, the things I can’t remember. Because you’re very good at that.”

Lavellan blinks, rubbing her eyes and attempting to lean against the wall. She fumbles,, almost falling, but fixes herself in time.

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“Do I want to know?’

“I don’t know. I was hoping you’d tell _me_ if I wanted to know.” She says, offering him a lop-sided, mostly sleepy smile. “As an aside, I’m slowly gathering a new respect for Cassandra. I mean. I respected her before. But like – this is something different. She drank as much as _Bull_. And Bull won’t even move. She’s yelling at soldiers. She’s _amazing_.”

“She’s probably not human.” Dorian snorts, closing his eyes as he rubs his temple. “She’s ridiculously fantastic. I mean, you’d think there’d be some sort of flaw in her somewhere. But no. She’s like you. But terrifying and routinely bowel-clenching intimidating.”

Lavellan snorts a laugh out through her nose, then pauses and groans. Dorian clicks his tongue, moves over and angles his body, she slips into the small sliver of space left on the chair, half on him, half in the gap, and sighs.

“So.” She says, hand over her face, “I don’t actually remember much of last night, but I woke up between Dalish and Skinner and I was missing my underclothes but was otherwise dressed, Dalish’s hair looks like a bird nested in it, and Skinner had flowers in her hair. I searched the entire room and couldn’t find them. I didn’t want to wake either of them, and I remember you being there so I thought that maybe you’d know, too.”

“To be clear, I was only there for half an hour and it was an attempt to drag you to bed. When it was clear that you weren’t having any of it, I left.” Dorian says, “And to remind you, the reason why I was trying to get you to go to sleep was because you had an early morning meeting today. Did you even go?”

“I did,but I kept making funny faces, and we cut early.” Lavellan says, “My mouth tastes like orange peels.”

“Well that’s certainly lovely.”

“Rotting orange peels.”

“Better than death.”

“Dorian, no.” Lavellan snorts. “Please tell me you know what happened to my smalls.”

“No, I don’t.” Dorian replies, patting her thigh. “But I do know who’s been stuffing all those volumes of nug studies in between all of my research piles. And I’m planning vengeance. Would you like to help?”

-

“Blackwall.” Lavellan says, skipping to a stop in front of the barn, “Blackwall are you here? Blackwall? Hello?”

Lavellan has a brief moment of panic when she doesn’t find him. A  moment where she thinks that he ran, that he’s gone after the Wardens to Weisshaupt, that he’s gone off to get himself killed, or worse. She feels her heart slowly climbing up her throat as she takes the stairs to the upstairs loft two at a time.

“Blackwall?” There’s no one here and she sees no note – and his things are still here, so he can’t be gone, but then again it didn’t look all too different the  last time he ran. Lavellan throws herself out the barn window and lands on the stable roof with a light thump, swinging her upper body over the edge to glance and count the horses. Blackwall’s mount is still here. But he could’ve left with a caravan, or with another leaving party. He could’ve disappeared with one of the squads or scouts.

Lavellan tugs on her lip. Leliana would’ve told her, right?

“Blackwall?” She calls out, hesitant, flipping to the ground and rolling away from the stable. “Dennet?”

“Yes, Inquisition?” He says, head poking out of the kennel.

“Is Blackwall here?” She asks, twisting her fingers together. “He’s here, isn’t he? He hasn’t gone anywhere?”

“He’s around, somewhere, Inquisition.” Dennet replies. He has a way of staying calm that makes Lavellan feel very safe. She feels like maybe the Breach really could swallow the world and he’d still be calling her Inquisition and filling buckets with oats and barking orders at stable hands. “Must be up at the training yard.”

Blackwall hasn’t really left this corner of Skyhold since the trial, and Lavellan was getting worried because everyone else seemed happy he wasn’t with them and at the very least Sera and Cullen seemed ready to forgive, Cole, too, but that’s not enough people. And Blackwall didn’t really seem to want to come back and Lavellan still wonders if maybe she didn’t do what’s right by him, even though she thinks she did what was right by everything else.

“Okay, thank you.” Lavellan says, sticking her head in through the stable door to wave at her hart and the dracolisk. “I’ll come back later to help muck out stalls.”

He nods at her.

Dennet is also the only person around who doesn’t tell her what she can and can’t do. If she wants to muck out stalls he doesn’t argue with her. He just lets her. He doesn’t tell her that she shouldn’t, that it isn’t appropriate, that it isn’t her job, that it isn’t her station.  He just lets her. And he even corrects her when something is wrong. And he tells her where she can help.

She wishes more people like Dennet.

Lavellan takes the stairs up to the courtyard two at a time, dodging around various Skyhold hands and merchants, glancing around for Blackwall’s figure. It shouldn’t be too hard to find him. She’s spent weeks following that back through rain, snow, and sand. But he blends in when he wants to because he dresses like a lot of other people. Not like Vivienne. She can see Vivienne. She can pick her out of a crowd. She can pick Bull and Cole and Varric and Solas and Sera out of a crowd. It’s harder with Cassandra, but people tend to make a little bubble around her. Dorian makes crowds. And Blackwall disappears.

“Blackwall?” She calls out, hesitant as she looks around, she doesn’t see him in the ring. “Krem, have you seen Blackwall?”

She tugs at the back of Krem’s shirt as she looks around the groups of training soldiers. Krem reaches around and squeezes her wrist.

“I think I saw him walking with Josephine on the ramparts.” Krem replies. “Unless it’s important you might want to leave them to it.”

Lavellan rests her cheek on his shoulder and breathes. “Oh.”

He didn’t leave. He just went to find his Josephine. Lavellan sighs.

“Oh. Okay. Thank you, Krem.” The little tight and cold thing inside eases a bit.

“You alright, your worship?”

“Yes. Thank you, Krem.” Lavellan leans against his side, “And who’s winning?”


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’d be a little better than that time with the chickens, wouldn’t it?”

Leliana is certain, when she firsts enters the cell and sees the wide-eyed elf, that this girl will be easy to break. She’s so young. No Dalish retains their baby-fat for very long, but there’s always a certain kind of doe-fluttering in their eyes and mouth that speaks of youth. It speaks of summers ripe and autumns swollen, winters glittering, and springs blooming. It’s a look around her mouth. It’s something unique to the Dalish, she’s found. A kind of innocence only Dalish can have because they’re adults early and tucked far away and at the same time in the creases of the palms of human corruption. It’s a paradoxical thing that always makes Leliana _wonder_.

But she looks into the dark cell, the girl in poorly fitted clothes of one of her scouts  - stolen – and the girl with the large eyes and the frightened mouth, and thinks – even if she is innocent, she’s going to break. She’ll say whatever she thinks we want her to say and we’ll vilify her because we have no other answers, and it’s going to turn into a large fucking _mess_.

Leliana doesn’t think she’s ever been more wrong about someone in her life.

Because Cassandra – Cassandra with her heat and steal and sharp snap – forces her way into the room and starts making demands and snapping orders. And the girl just looks at them with her paradoxical face and her mouth sealed shut and she doesn’t even flinch. For a moment, Leliana thinks that perhaps she’s a deaf-mute.

And then she looks straight at her and there’s that sharp thing. Something that kicks Leliana’s mind back over a decade and she sees another face, another woman, another time. Another life, it seems. And a sharp tongue and a wicked spinning staff, a woman with robes and blood at the hem. She feels a homesickness. Strange. That small camp wasn’t really home. It was only a year.

But it was.

And it’s that kick, she thinks, that makes Leliana step in and say _stop_. Because if that kick is a warning of anything like Surana, Cassandra yelling at her is only going to end in blood, tears, and probably some very unfortunate gore.

Later, later after chancellors and mages and time travel and dwarves and Qunari and elves – Leliana considers the way Lavellan’s legs kick over the edge of the wooden platform of the rotunda.

“You constantly prove me wrong.” Leliana says, slowly lowering herself to sit next to her, their legs dangling together.

“Is that so?” Lavellan replies, humming as she kicks her legs in a rhythm she vaguely recognizes from Cole’s off-beat tappings.

“Yes. It makes me feel young again.”

“You are young.” Lavellan laughs.

“That’s what I like people to think.”

-

Dalish idly strokes Lavellan’s cheek as Lavellan naps, nose against her thigh.

“She’s so cute.”

“She’s responsible for the lives of all of Thedas.” Skinner replies, stretching her toes. “And she twitches and kicks like a rabbit or a pup in her sleep. A pup chasing a rabbit.”

“I know.” Dalish coos, brushing some of Lavellan’s hair over her ear. “She’s so teeny.”

“ _You’re_ teeny.” Skinner points out. “Also, have you seen how hard she can hit with that staff? The _crack_ it makes is deafening.”

Dalish hums, and Lavellan snuffles a little, attempting to roll onto her face. Dalish and Skinner both hurry to make sure she doesn’t.

“You’d think that someone with a broken nose would remember not to lie down on their face.” Skinner muses, sighing as Dalish cups Lavellan’s face and draws her back onto her back. “I feel like this kid would be the kind of kid that everyone at the alienage would try to lock up to prevent accidents.”

“If she were part of my clan I think all of the hahren would be white with stress.” Dalish laughs, “I wonder what the rest of the children in her clan are like.”

“Can you imagine a whole hoard of them?” Skinner snickers. “Fuck. Can you imagine? The Chief would want to collect them all into his own miniature army division. It’d be hilarious as shit.”

“It makes one wonder if we’d even get hired. An entire squadron of Lavellans. They might drive any potential hires crazy.”

“True.” Skinner tucks her feet underneath herself and leans forward to adjust the thin blanket they’ve tossed over her. “Also I don’t think we’d even be able to give them directions. They’d just scatter, wandering off every few minutes in odd directions.”

“It’d be a little better than that time with the chickens, wouldn’t it?”

“Anything would be better than that time with the damn chickens, Dalish. _Anything_.”

-

“I’m hungry.” Lavellan says, sounding mildly baffled as she turns to Varric. “Varric, I am hungry.”

“You look it.” Sera says from the side, “I also need to piss, while we’re saying the stuff we need.”

“I’m _hungry_.” Lavellan repeats, stopping and putting her hands on her hips, looking dazed. “I’ve been hungry before. You go hungry a lot living in the woods. But not like this.” Lavellan blinks, frowns, and looks incredibly affronted. “I’m hungry and there’s nothing for me to eat or chew on and you can only eat snow for so long and I am getting angry.”

Sera snorts. “Only _you_ would be angry for not having things to eat aside from snow. Who even _eats snow_?”

“It’s just really cold water!” Lavellan bursts out, “And you’re the one who gets weirded out from peeing in it!”

Before the two can break out into more bickering, Bull turns around and places a small packet of nuts and dried fruit into Lavellan’s hand.

“There.” Bull says, “Krem said that’d come in handy. Share it with Sera and let’s keep moving. There are _three_ dragons waiting for us after we make our fucking way through this damn snow.”

Lavellan exchanges a mildly terrified look with Varric while Sera claps her hands and breathes into them.

“I hope they breathe fire.” Sera says.

“I hope they leave before we get there.” Varric mutters. “You know, they keep saying that dragons are rare, that active high dragons are rare. Why the fuck is it that we keep tripping over them? Everywhere we go. Dragons. Ridiculous.”

“Yes. I was wondering about that.” Lavellan says, “Any theories?”

“You’re shit luck.” Sera throws in. “Absolute shit luck. You are a shit luck vortex.”

“Any other theories?”

“You’re damn lucky.” Bull says, “Amazingly lucky. And I’m glad I got signed on.”


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dread Wolf take me." She groans.

"I changed my mind, I don't like you anymore." Lavellan says, darting looks towards the windows and getting ready to bolt. Bull grunts and he hears Dalish and Skinner going to close and block the windows. Grim's at the stairs and he's got Rocky and Stitches at the other two exits.  
  
Krem puts a hand on her shoulder and sits her back down.  
  
She glances around at all of them before hissing at Dalish - " _Traitor_."  
  
Bull doesn't need to look to know exactly what face Dalish is making, just that it makes Lavellan bristle and cross her arms.  He has a feeling it's the patronizing one, the one that makes even Rocky think twice.  
  
"You knew _someone_ was going to have to give you this talk some time, Boss." Bull says, bending down a little - they should've just gotten her a higher chair, really, poor foresight on this one - to look her in the eye. "It's been a while coming."  
  
"Yes, well. I didn't think it'd be _you_." Lavellan whines, squirming a bit as Krem holds her still, hands on her shoulders. "Unfair. There's too many of you to escape from at once. And it's _Dalish_. She knows half my tricks."  
  
Dalish huffs, "Excuse me, da'len?"  
  
"Alright, _fine_ , she knows _most_ of my tricks. Except for the ones from my Keeper, Solas, Sera, and Cole." Lavellan frowns. "Can't you just _pretend_ to give me the talk?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure your spymaster would know if I did." Bull replies, "Though I did consider it, if it means anything to you."  
  
"We do it because we care." Krem throws in, "And if it wasn't us it'd be your Commander. Poor man has enough on his plate already."  
  
Lavellan wilts a little.  
  
"So." Bull rests his elbows on his knees and she reluctantly sits up a bit straighter. "About all those bees..."  
  
-  
  
"Why don't I ever take the bog unicorn anywhere?"  
  
"Because you have better taste than that and you love us." Sera replies.  
  
"I also love the unicorn." Lavellan muses, "Do you think he gets lonely? Or sad? He's always cooped up."  
  
"Because everyone is terrified of him."  
  
"Cassandra likes him."  
  
" _Cassandra_ thinks he's a step up from that angry _dick_ of a lizard you brought home. There's a difference." Sera snorts.  
  
"I should start bringing him places." Lavellan concludes, ignoring Sera altogether. "I wonder if he's ever been anywhere outside of his bog? Poor thing. He needs to see the world."  
  
"Uh. _No_. He needs to go back to being dead. Like normal dead things. Natural cycle of life and shit. Things die - like, say, sword through the _skull_ \- and stay _dead_. Nowhere in the process does it say come back to life."  
  
"But he's alive _now_ and it can't be right to just treat him like he's dead." Lavellan argues. "He's so _sweet_."  
  
"Ugh."  Sera groans. "You have the weirdest taste."  
  
"Well. You're my friend, too." Lavellan points out. "If I have weird taste, and I picked you, what does that say?"  
  
"It says you're _weird_." Sera replies. "Have you actually seen who you've got around you? Antivan ambassador, former super spy Qunari with on eye, Tevinter mage, weird wandering old elven glory preacher guy, miss priss enchanter, dragon-slaying Right Hand of the Divine, scary knife in the back Left Hand of the Divine - do I even have to go on?"  
  
"The unicorn fits right in!"  
  
"And it's totally saying something about something or something-something. Ugh. That thing is so creepy. It just _stares_.  Never blinks or anything."  
  
"Don't be silly, Sera. He can't _blink_. He has no eyes."  
  
-  
  
Considering that, when not fighting for her life - and even sometimes then - or working on a task deemed worthy of her attention, on a good day Lavellan's attention span is as short lived as a mayfly, and as easily distracted as a week old kitten, Cullen finds it incredibly impressive that she's so damned good at cards.  
  
Granted, at first when they gave her a new rule set she was lost for a few weeks before she got very good, very _quickly_ \- and Cullen is still trying to figure out who taught her, but she's remaining mum on the subject - but still.  
  
Overall, she's very good. Good enough to sometimes make _Bull_ think twice. Cullen's even willing to bet she could go against Josephine for a few rounds. Though, inevitably, Josephine would win.  
  
The good thing is that the Inquisitor doesn't seem too keen on keeping the money she's won, and between and after rounds is likely to wander off and leave her winnings behind for anyone to take. At first they kept trying to return it to her, but she'd still keep leaving it places. Cullen once found her winnings dangling from a curtain.  
  
"But it's all just _Inquisition_ money." She says when Blackwall firmly closes her hand around a sizeable coin purse. "What does it matter?"  
  
"It's _yours_." He repeats. "Do you remember that talk we had about people's possessions?"  
  
"The one where Varric asked for my staff, but didn't really want it, but asked to make a point?" She sounds hesitant, brows furrowed as she attempts to remember.  
  
"That's the one." Blackwall replies. "Now don't lose this."  
  
Josephine and Varric take her aside for another attempt at explaining personal possessions, the Inquisition's assets, and human coinage to her again. It must stick in some way, shape, or form - though most likely not in the way intended. Because, as a result, Lavellan has taken to slipping coin into people's clothing and bags. Cullen's even had a few slipped down the back of his neck. A very uncomfortable feeling, but one that he's - sadly - getting used to. It's not all too different from when he was a recruit and they'd slip bits of paper down each other's uniforms during classes.  
  
Cullen reaches around and fingers one of the folds of his cloak, feeling for the slightly off weight -  
  
"Inquisitor." Cullen sighs as he pulls out a few copper and silver coins. "You really ought to be saving this for yourself."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So you can buy things on your own."  
  
" _Why_?"  
  
"So." Cullen pauses, "What do you mean _why_?"  
  
"I don't need it." She says. "I don't have anything I want to buy. I already have everything I could possibly need."  
  
Cullen opens his mouth - pauses.  
  
She is the Inquisitor. She has a _castle_. She has an arcanist and a blacksmith dedicated to keeping her armed and dangerous with the most cutting edge of designs, magic, and materials available throughout all of Thedas. She regularly ransacks dead bodies. People tend to thrust food at her left, right, and center. She is often given gifts that she tends not to use, but still gather around her anyway. She has a mount and a stable. She has a kennel. She has a network of merchants operating through Skyhold. She has a bloody _tavern_.  
  
The Inquisition's credit stretches far beyond their walls and even if she should be caught alone in a foreign city, one glance at her hand and people would - no doubt - be willing to either give her food and lodging, or whatever she needs for free, or for a favor or repayment from the Inquisition.  
  
Here, Cullen thinks - a little dazed -, is perhaps the one person in all of Thedas who will never need to carry a coin purse. Flames, the only reason she does is so she has someplace to put the money she picks off of dead bodies.  
  
Otherwise, she wouldn't need it at all.  
  
"Maker's _breath_." Cullen sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  
  
Lavellan returns to slipping coins - apparently having given up on being subtle, or moderate - in between layers of reports letters, missives, and notes on his desk.  
  
-  
  
"Do you have to turn everything into a lesson?"  
  
"If I didn't, would you listen?" Solas replies from his seated position, surveying the valley. "Think of it as an interactive exercise."  
  
"I've been here for an hour and I'm still not any closer to solving it." Lavellan says, "I'm fairly certain that the dots are moving every time I reset. Why do I have to do it? Bull can do it. Bull's _smart_. The dots probably wouldn't dare move on Bull."  
  
Bull hums. "Got to admit it's nice to take a breather once in a while, Boss."  
  
"Because you're getting _old_." Lavellan says, reaching around to blindly wave her hand at him. "Shush and agree with me - wait. I'm the _boss_! Can't I just order you to do this?"  
  
"You _could_." Bull concedes.  
  
"You _won't_." Solas adds on. "Because if you do then _you_ didn't solve the puzzle. You let someone _else_ do it for you. And thus the lesson is incomplete."  
  
Lavellan lets out a loud groan, looking away from the astrarium to glare at them both, eyes squinted shut. "I don't even know what the lesson is!"  
  
"Patience." Solas replies as Bull answers, "Pattern observation."  
  
Lavellan makes a high pitched sound of annoyance before spinning back and kicking the astrarium. She yelps.  
  
"I know Krem's taught you not to kick things made of metal." Bull says, "Not without your good boots and never with your toes."  
  
Lavellan mutters something under her breath before sulking back to look through the astrarium's eyepiece once more.  
  
"What's even the point of being the one in charge if I can't tell people to do things?" Lavellan mumbles, "We're going to end up being here all _day_."  
  
Bull and Solas exchange a glance.  
  
That is, after all, the point. They need to keep her occupied while the others clean and set up the Fort. Knowing Lavellan, she'd be darting in and out all  day and driving them crazy getting into place she ought not to be.  
  
"How many more are after this one again?" She asks.  
  
"Two." Bull replies.  
  
"Dread Wolf take me." She groans.  
  
"Careful, da'len. He might just take you to _another_ set of astrariums." Solas replies. "He has an odd sense of humor."


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Forgive me for not being born into it." Cullen replies, "If you ever need to know anything about crop rotation, I'll return the favor of your advice."

"Well don't you look absolutely _charming_ , today. What's the occasion?" Vivienne runs her fingers over the soft fabric of Lavellan's coat, "And wherever did you get this? It looks marvelous on you."  
  
"Josephine had it made." Lavellan says, raising and lowering her arms, looking down at herself as she spins out, letting the coat flare around her. "I think Leliana got mad when Alistair insulted her clothing taste by laughing at me."  
  
"Well. Those beige - _things_ \- are quite." Vivienne. "They're quite _something_. I'm not sure on what word to use."  
  
"They don't show dirt and dust stains." Lavellan says. "And I think they should get some credit for that. Even though they were really tight. Actually - I think those were left here by the previous owners of Skyhold."  
  
Vivienne closes her eyes and sighs.  
  
"So I have a new coat." Lavellan continues, spinning again, humming as she swishes the coat's hem back and forth, arms outspread. "It's very soft. I like it. Josephine says I should try it on and - run it through it's paces? It's not a _horse_ , though, so I don't get why she said that."  
  
"Yes, that is a good idea." Vivienne muses. "You are rather hard on your clothing."  
  
"Shems just make their clothing too _fragile_." Lavellan protests, huffing as she jumps up and down, watching the coat billow and fall with her, laughing. "Also I like the buttons. They're so pretty. Do you think Krem has any buttons like these?"  
  
Upon closer inspection, Vivienne is certain that those buttons are made of silverite. She takes Lavellan's arm and peers into the lining of the sleeve. Imperial vestment wool. She's willing to wager the paneling is nug skin, or perhaps dragonling webbing. Not a bad idea, arming her even when she isn't armed. At least it will definitely stand up to Lavellan's periods of great activity better than anything else she's had so far.  
  
"Do run along and do that testing." Vivienne says, "And tell me how it goes?"  
  
Vivienne just might have her own day clothes commissioned from the undercroft if it holds up well enough.  
  
Lavellan nods and mutters her assent, still looking down at herself and playing with the hem, meandering off in the general direction of the stairs to the courtyard.  
  
-  
  
"Maybe if I'm very, _very_ quiet, they won't notice I'm here." Dorian whispers, and Cullen shoots him a vaguely amused and mostly incredulous glance.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It works for _her_ , why shouldn't it work for me?"  
  
Cullen looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh and give them away. "I don't think you could be quiet even if someone tied a gag around your mouth."  
  
"Kinky." Dorian says, earning a choked sputter, "But not until after the third date. And I could _too_ be quiet if I put my mind to it. I can do _anything_ if I put my mind to it."  
  
"If you two don't shut the hell up, they're going to catch all three of us." Sera snaps. "I can't fucking believe I got talked into coming here."  
  
"She's a fast talker." Dorian mutters, "A dirty little fast talker. How did she even get _you_ to come? Did she click her tongue and coax you out of your tower of solitude with treats and promises of chess games?"  
  
Sera and Dorian turn to Cullen. He grimaces.  
  
"I'm _required_ to come. As the Commander, or something. Josephine wasn't exactly clear when she was packing my new wardrobe for me."  
  
"Remind me to thank Josephine on behalf of the entire population of Skyhold for said new wardrobe." Dorian says to Sera.  
  
"Done and _done_." The two bump their closed fists.  
  
"Can either of you two figure a way to sneak us out or not?" Cullen whispers. "I've had to dodge three marriage proposals. From _sisters_. There are _two_ more sisters out there and a brother. The last time I refused she threatened to have him _duel_ me for the apparent slight against her."  
  
"How do you even _survive_?" Dorian mutters. "You're almost as bad as the Inquisitor is at this."  
  
"Forgive me for not being born into it." Cullen replies, "If you ever need to know anything about crop rotation, I'll return the favor of your advice."  
  
"Alright, I think I've figured a way out." Sera whispers, "But we're going to need to wait for a distraction."  
  
" _Please_ , as if we need to wait." Dorian snorts, "Look, the Inquisitor's going on the dance floor. Distraction solved."  
  
"Good, because all I have on me is a jar of antivan fire and I don't think anyone'd be too happy if I used that."  
  
-  
  
"My feet hurt." Lavellan mourns, collapsing on the sofa, narrowly missing hitting her head on the wall. "My legs hurt. My back hurts. My head hurts."  
  
"That is a lot of hurt." Solas replies, not looking up from the book Dorian threw down earlier. While he doesn't quite appreciate the method of delivery as much as he thinks Dorian does, he does appreciate the fact that this is a very interesting book and proving to be extremely helpful in his research on the shards and occularums. "Perhaps you ought to lie down for a while."  
  
She whines and he hears her beat her legs against the sofa.  
  
" _Hahren_." He looks up for a moment and sees that she's rolled onto her face.  
  
He knows exactly what she's here for and he's not going to spoil her. Everyone _else_ does already. Besides, the others keep teasing him for being soft on her as it is.  
  
A little pain is good for you, he thinks at her as he shakes his head and returns to the book.  
  
Solas turns a frail, thin page, and resolves to wait her out.  
  
It doesn't take him very long - two pages of translations and half a page of notes.  
  
" _Please_ use magic on my feet?" Her voice is a little small, very young, and pitched not to carry. Which proves something about her awareness that most people don't realize and makes Solas incredibly proud that she's managed to trick so many people with.  
  
"Since you asked so _politely_." Solas closes the book, standing and pressing his hands to the small of his back, eyes closed. It was time for a break anyway.  
  
If she did not ask, he would have given her the task of reading while she couldn't move.  
  
Lavellan throws herself into a sitting position, legs outstretched. Solas picks her legs up, laying them across his lap as he sits next to her. He slowly cools his fingers and weaves healing and spirit magic around them, pressing his fingers to the ach of her foot and working small circles. Lavellan sighs and slumps, eyes sliding closed.  
  
"You're the best hahren, ma serannas."  
  
Solas hums, "Someday you'll learn this for yourself, da'len."  
  
"Today is not that day." She says, leaning to rest her cheek on the back of the sofa.  
  
"I never said it was." Solas replies, "But what _did_ you learn for the day?"


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then she points at him, "And this," She says, pointing at his eyebrows. "This is my mother's mother's father's. Like his. Maybe our clans exchanged?"

He dreams, and he is Seheron again. A soft whisper and he turns and the fog comes, and he knows. He knows he's going to lose someone. Any number of them. It won't be _him_ , because you can't dream a death that hasn't already happened, he can't dream a memory of himself dying. It doesn't work that way. He doesn't work that way.  
  
He dreams, and then he is Orlais, and he is standing there. Standing there as the waves crash onto the shore and he sees them. His Chargers. _His_ guys. He sees them far away on the distant bluff and he hears the roar of oceans and rocks and blood in his own damned ears. Gatt says let it happen. _Anam esaam Qun_. Bull knows. But his fingers curl around the horn, paralyzed. He would have let them died. He would have let them _go_.  
  
"This." A voice, _her_ voice says. "Is not _you_. You are not _this_."  
  
He turns and he is nowhere. He is naked and she is naked. They sit cross legged in front of each other, laid bare. Bones and skin, self unfolded.  
  
It says something about him that his first instinct is to cover her. To find something to wrap around her shoulders, to hide her. _Not safe for you, little saarebas,_ he thinks. Got to keep you safe. And a soft brown-red-orange pelt drifts around her shoulders, tucked around her with his hands that move on their own. Keep the little boss safe.  
  
Brave little saarebas looks up at him and doesn't smile so much as she tilts her head. She points behind him, to Seheron. To the Coast.  
  
" _You_ didn't do that. That is not you."  
  
"It is me." Bull says, holding his arms open. Bare skin and scars and pains. " _This_ is _me_."  
  
"No." She says, and leans forward, puts her palm against his chest. " _This_ is you."  
  
"Yeah. And I did that shit. I'm _Hissrad_. I'm the liar." Bull says. And the word-title-self feels bad to say. Awkward, like a mouthful of bone.  
  
She shakes her head. "No. _No_."  
  
"Yes." Bull says, " _Yes_."  
  
"No." She points behind him again. " _That_ is _him_." She touches his chest. " _This_ is _you_."  
  
She turns her head and points. An empty cage to the side.  
  
" _That_ is Hissrad." She says.  
  
"There's nothing there, boss."  
  
"No." She says, pointing. " _That_ is Hissrad."  
  
"There's nothing there." Bull says, tired and angry and feeling every bit his age. "There's nothing fucking _there_. It's just a damned _cage_."  
  
Because I am out here. Because Hissrad is out _here_.  
  
"It's just a cage." She repeats, looking back to him, still pointing. "That _is_ Hissrad. Just a cage."  
  
Bull looks into her dream-eyes and he wonders what it says about himself that when he dreams, he dreams _her_. And that she says things like this and that she says these fucking - fucking strange and amazingly deep things that cut straight into his marrow.  
  
"I am Hissrad." Bull whispers, shoulders slumping.  
  
She is quiet before her palm resets on his head, a slight pressure between his horns.  
  
"Hissrad is you. But you are not Hissrad." She says. "The Inquisitor is me. I am not the Inquisitor. It's just a cage, the Iron Bull. It's _all_ just a cage. The you of yesterday is not the you of today. The you of yesterday is dead. The me of yesterday is dead. I am a stranger from myself a year ago. I meet her on the road and I say, _who are you?_ And she says, _who are you?_ The you of two, ten years ago, meets you at a crossroads and says, _who are you? What is your name?_ And you ask, _who are you? Who's asking?_ The you who did those things is dead, gone. Another name. Another person. You make yourself when the sun rises. That is you. That is you, right now. As the sun rises and sun sets, you are new again. Hissrad is dead, Hissrad is gone. Unless you make him new again."  
  
Bull feels himself waking up. He will remember this dream - all the Ben-Hassrath are trained to remember and control their dreams. Bull wonders what part of him was controlling this dream. It doesn't feel like anything in this dream was under his control. Then again, his boss never is under anyone's control.  
  
"You are the Iron Bull." She says as he feels himself losing the dream. "You are today."  
  
-  
  
"This is my mother." Lavellan says, pointing to her chin. "And this is my father." She points to her cheek. "This is my mother's mother." She points to her thumb nail. "And this is my mother's father." She points to her pinky. "This is my father's mother." She pulls at her hair, "And this is my father's father." She touches her upper lip. "This is how I know them. This is how they're always with me."  
  
There is something melancholy and a touch warm about the way she says that, earnest and simple. So very honest and matter of fact.  
  
This, and this, and this. She points.  
  
Then she points at him, "And this," She says, pointing at his eyebrows. "This is my mother's mother's father's. Like his. Maybe our clans exchanged?"  
  
Solas would not be surprised if it turned out she actually was related to him. He has lived a long time. Fathered many. One of those children of Arlathan must have survived. One of them must have continued, _lived_.  
  
"Perhaps." He replies.  
  
She continues, pulling up her sleeve and pointing at marks.  
  
"This is one of the sisters." She touches a fading scar, small and flat and pale. "This is the brother of a brother of a father." She rotates her wrist to point at a thin line over the bone. "This is an elder's wife." She touches the holes in her ears. "This is Dorian." She puts her hand on her side, where he cauterized her wound with magic. Solas blinks as she slowly moves away from her clan, her blood, to them. "This is Bull." She shows her palms and the callouses and new-healing-old blisters. "This one is Krem." She points at one callous in particular. "And this is Sera." She points at her fingertips.  
  
"This is Vivienne," She points to the blisters on her feet. "This is Varric." She bends the tip of her ear to show a faint mark from when one of Varric's bolts was knocked off course and nicked her ear. "This is Cole." She touches her upper arm where she and Cole collided during a fight, and she cut herself open on one of his daggers by accident.  
  
She goes on, pointing at the place on her body where people have left marks. Permanent and not.  
  
And Solas almost reaches out and touches the anchor. Tells her.  
  
"And _this_ is me." He thinks as he imagines touching his fingertips to the green line. "This is _me_."  
  
Permanent. Like her chin and her thumb, her cheek and her upper lip. More than his eyebrows which may or may not belong to her, also.  
  
This. _This_ is him.  
  
"And this is you." She says, pointing at the mark and he startles, eyes raised to her - wide - _when_ did she know? Heart in his throat - he croaks -  
  
"What?"  
  
She blinks, frowns, mid-way to pointing to something else.  
  
"When you saved my life." She says. "You watched over me while I slept. And made sure it didn't kill me." She points to the anchor again. "So this is you. You saved my life, hahren. And whenever I look at the mark I remember. It's  you. It's me."  
  
"Ah." Solas doesn't know if he's disappointed or not. "I see."  
  
-  
  
"Every time I think I love you enough already, you go and do something like this and I realize I can, I really _can_ , love you more. My chest will probably explode at this rate. It will be absolutely terrifying and messy and painful." Dorian says, leaning on her shoulder, kissing her temple as he sighs, watching the chaos in the training yard below them.  
  
"Your chest can't explode from your heart growing, Dorian." Lavellan replies, arm around his waist, "That's _ridiculous_."  
  
"Maybe I'll be the first. The Inquisition tends to be good at setting records like that." Dorian settles his arm around her shoulder and squeezes her close. "Best name day present ever. From the best friend I could ever have."  
  
"Wait until you see the cake." She laughs, "Also I think Vivienne got you something but I'm scared for you because I don't know why she'd do that."  
  
"Probably to retaliate for the scarf I got her." Dorian replies, "It was dreadful and should she ever wear it, will most likely cause people to avert their eyes and weep."  
  
"Then why'd you get it?"  
  
"To see the look on her face when she opened it." Dorian replies, "Of course."  
  
"Of _course_." Lavellan snorts. "Now I'm very worried."  
  
"In this game of escalating insults to taste and common sense, I am winning." Dorian replies. "I refuse to lose to her."  
  
"If you say so." Lavellan hums, leaning a little over the wall. "Do you think Cullen is going to be very mad at me for this?"  
  
"It's my birthday. He'll it slide." They both wince when there's a loud crash and a series of yells and yelps, "Probably. Besides what's he going to do? Yell at you for making a giant puddle? He thinks half these people are idiots anyway. It's good training for them. I am seriously concerned for the state of your army if they can't walk through ankle deep water."


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As we may or may not recall the Inquisitor has a habit of putting strange and terrifying things in her mouth when people are or are not looking, regardless of the faces of horror and disgust aimed her way."

"I have concerns. I am _concerned_. There are things which are concerning to me." Dorian says, shoving room between Krem and Sera to get Varric's attention. "Address these concerns and put my poor mind at ease."  
  
"You're awfully concerned a lot of the time." Krem says, "Is this a new concern or an old one, come back from the dead?"  
  
"S'what you get for raising the dead." Sera mutters, yelping when Dorian elbows her in the side. "Careful! Almost hit my boob, you ass!"  
  
"It is an old concern mixed with a new concern to breed an entirely new being of super concern." Dorian replies,  "My concern is also warranted. Has anyone seen the state of _anything_ recently? Life, itself, is underneath a giant label of _concerning_ right now."  
  
"Point to the man who only wears a shirt with _one_ sleeve in the middle of the Frostback mountains." Varric says, "Alright, alright. My attention is all yours, Sparkler. What's so concerning, now?"  
  
"We are over using the word _concerning_." Krem mutters, ignored as Dorian leans forward. "I'm beginning to wonder if you people even know what the word concerning _means_. I don't think it means what you think it means."  
  
"As we may or may not recall the Inquisitor has a habit of putting strange and terrifying things in her mouth when people are or are not looking, regardless of the faces of horror and disgust aimed her way."  
  
"Yes. Nothing new there. First time I met her, she had snow in her mouth." Varric says - he still doesn't know how she  managed it and the Seeker claims she never saw her do it, just that she was. - "At this point I"m fairly sure that it really is making her stronger, since it isn't killing her. Your point?"  
  
"That's the _old_ concern." Dorian says, folding his hands together and pushing his thumbs between his brows and rubbing his head against them. "The _new_ concern is that we killed a dragon."  
  
"No. That seems like _another_ old concern." Sera says. "A _really_ old concern."  
  
"We took back vials of dragon blood." Dorian continues. "Do you know what dragon blood can do to a person when _ingested_?"  
  
"Drive them crazy or turn them into the Chief?" Krem says, turning to eye the man in question. " _Flames_. I'm beginning to not like where this is going."  
  
"I am almost completely certain that she's taken a sip of it, at the very least. An entire vial at the worst." Dorian shudders. "And I'm not sure if I want this confirmed or not."  
  
Krem cracks his knuckles, swinging his leg over the bench and getting up, "Wait here."  
  
Dorian, Varric, and Sera turn to watch him advance on the qunari in the back.  
  
Krem stands with his back to them, and a look of surprise flashes across the man's face and he says something. They see Krem bow his head, running a hand down his face before yelling -  
  
"Flames, Chief! What've we _said_ about talking about those kind of things in front of the girl?" Krem throws his arms up and stomps back to them. "He told her about how he became a reaver and she probably thought it interesting enough to try it and see if it worked on mages."  
  
Dorian closes his eyes. "I do so hate it when my concerns turn out to be _right_."  
  
Varric groans, leaning back in his chair, "Well. You can't say that this is a misuse of the word _concerning_ after all, can you?"  
  
-  
  
"She's so tiny. She folds up so small." Josephine whispers when she finds Lavellan curled up underneath some bushes in the garden, legs curled to her chest, fingers curled by her face. Josephine barely refrains from cooing.  
  
"She's going to get sick." Leliana muses, "Should we wake her, do you think? Or find someone to carry her to her room?"  
  
"She hasn't been sleeping well." Josephine muses, "Perhaps we should call someone? I don't want to wake her."  
  
"I'll call Dorian." Leliana says, "Or Solas, whichever one is least busy. They're the closest."  
  
"I'll stay with her." Josephine replies. "It's odd. Usually that boy - Cole? - Cole would be around here. That's what he does, isn't it? Make sure she's taken care of?"  
  
"Hm. You'd _think_." Leliana shrugs, turning to walk back into the main hall. "I'll be right back."  
  
I watch, I listen. She sleeps underneath the bushes and thinks _this is close enough_. She puts her hand in her own palm and says, this _could be_ mother. It is enough to trick, to pretend. She curls her knees up very small. Like she is a young _da'len_ again, and she will not be seen. Hidden where nothing can get her. Mother's hand _is_ her hand, linked. She holds herself because there is no mother's warmth, no father's shadow. Gone, now. The safety of the Dread Wolf's statue keeping spirits at bay, the huff of halla as they graze, and the shadows cast on aravel sails. The fence of shadows and wood and moving horns. Gone.  
  
So she hides and she sleeps hidden to trick herself into sleeping safely.  
  
It doesn't feel safe. In the open windows and stone of the tower where they put her. There are no walls. Not _her_ walls.  
  
She needs to be found.  
  
So I whisper to Josephine. Take a break. Take a walk. I whisper to Leliana,  you need air to clear your mind.  
  
I nudge them together and they go into the garden.  
  
And I wait from above, making _sure_.  
  
Yes, good. They find her.  
  
Yes. I _am_ here. I am making sure she is being taken care of. This is what I _do_.  
  
I find the hurt and hurting. I make it better.  
  
My hands are not her mother's hands and my shadow is not her father's shadow but I know how to make the walls she knows and likes. I know how. She _shows_ me, and I remember. She remembers, too.  
  
Too much, sometimes.  
  
Dorian comes and she remembers and loves Dorian and Dorian remembers me, and he would remember to make the walls she knows and needs.  
  
He sighs, sad and tired and scars of old hurts that don't need _me_ because they are already healing fine on their own. Don't rush that hurt. It needs time. I am _Compassion_.  
  
He coaxes her into his arms. Brother and _sister_. Not mother and father. But _good_. His arms are the walls she _wants_.  
  
Now this part is over. Now, _I_ go. Into her dream. To watch. To wait. I will be the wall of daggers in her sleep. I will keep her safe.  
  
_Forget_.  
  
-  
  
"Think of it as practice for having children." Josephine says, earning a mildly baffled look from Cassandra. "Or babysitting."  
  
"The Herald of Andraste isn't a _child_." Cassandra says, "She's a fully grown woman who is capable of killing demons, trained soldiers, and renegade mages."  
  
The scout  looks doubtful. "I am to - ah. Lady Leliana said I was simply supposed to _watch_ her from afar and report in on her activities."  
  
"Let me rephrase." Josephine clears her throat. "Consider it as practice for having children, where you must refrain from locking them in a well padded room in order to keep yourself sane and have a moment's worth of peace."  
  
They both turn to Cassandra who hums, shrugs, then nods.  
  
The scout's expression changes from doubtful to horrified and sympathetic. "Are the assassination attempts on her really that awful?"  
  
"What? Oh, _no_.Those we can handle just fine. If anything they tend to foil themselves. It's uncanny." Josephine laughs, waving her hand. "It's just that - ah. The _other_ thing."  
  
"The - other thing?" The scout points to his palm.  
  
"No." Cassandra sighs. "The _accidents_."  
  
"Accidents?"  
  
"Yes." Josephine shakes her head, voice lowering, "The _accidents_."  
  
Cassandra rubs her hand over her face. "The time with the trebuchet and the sewn nugs."  
  
"The time with the dracolisk and the bucket." Jospephine pinches the bridge of her nose.  
  
" _Sera_ and the bucket."  
  
"The dragon's blood."  
  
"The _actual_ dragon."  
  
"The hoard of puppies that keep following her around."  
  
"The raccoon. That damned _raccoon_."  Cassandra shakes her head and looks at Josephine, brows drawn, "That thing keeps finding its way back here and into her room. We can't get rid of it. I've had it returned to the Hinterlands  _four_ times already. I'm considering having someone send it to Orlais."  
  
"Um." The scout looks between them. "Accidents?"  
  
"The Herald is - " Josephine searches for the word.  
  
"Absent minded at the best of times." Cassandra fills in. "And it's led to some - deeply worrying incidents and baffling occurrences. You've watched Leliana's nugs before. Consider her similar to one of them, but with opposable thumbs and the ability to talk."  
  
The scout swallows, nervous.  
  
"And now you've terrified him." Josephine sighs. "It's not that bad. _She's_ not that bad."  
  
Cassandra snorts.  
  
As if on cue, they hear a loud thump from outside the door and a surprised voice, " _Cullen_! Are you alright? I'm sorry, I didn't see you. Well. I'm not seeing much of _anything_ , to be honest. I've been wearing a sack over my head all day and it's not very easy to see things like this, let me tell you."  
  
"Is there any particular reason _why_ you are wearing a sack over your head?"  
  
"No. I think I remember having one when Cole and I thought this up, but I've forgotten, now. So. No. Not _really_. Should there ought to be?"  
  
The scout turns to look back at them, expression on his face as if to say - is this really happening? Is she serious?  
  
Cassandra and Josephine nod.  
  
The door swings open a moment later and Cullen walks in with Lavellan's arm curled around his, a sack over her head as Cullen guides her into the room.  
  
"Hello." She says, waving in no one's direction. She turns towards Cullen and whispers - still loud enough to faintly hear - "Josephine is here, right?"  
  
"Josephine, Cassandra, and one of the scouts, my lady." Cullen replies, dry look of amused resignation on his face as he exchanges a look with Josephine and Cassandra. "Shall I leave you here? Will you be alright?"  
  
"Yes. _Probably_." Lavellan replies. "Oh, I remember. I was doing this because I wanted to know what it was like to be blind, but we didnt' trust me to keep my eyes closed so a sack. Also we were thinking of finding something to use as a blind fold but it's easier to take off a sack than to unknot a blind fold, isn't it?"  
  
"Good luck." Cassandra says to the scout, clapping a hand to his shoulder before moving to leave. "I am leaving."  
  
"Oh, goodbye, Cassandra." Lavellan waves in no one's direction again. "Cole is waiting for you on the second floor of the smithy."


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dalish clicks her tongue at him. “Don’t make light of a girl in love.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love.” Lavellan says in between talking about nug fingers and her pet raccoon. Krem pauses,feels his thoughts scrambling together like wooden blocks knocking each other over. “And then I found the raccoon making a nest out of all the clothes Vivienne bought me for spring and I really love how his teeny hands work, Krem. Teeny hands!”

“Wait, what?” Krem coughs, sputtering as Lavellan reaches over to smack his back. “Wait, _care to repeat that last bit?”_

“Teeny hands?”

“No, before that.”

“Nest of clothes?”

“Before that.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love?”

“Yeah. That part. Care to explain?”

Lavellan just looks at him, a little amused, mostly confused. Which is unfair seeing as _he_ should be the one feeling that.

“I don’t think it’s possible to explain the feeling of falling in love, Krem.” She says, gentle and sweet and all the things that make your teeth rot out of your skull. “That’s just not how it works.”

“I mean – “ Krem waves a hand, “Who? What? Why? When?”

Lavellan just hums at him. Smiling a little before getting up and skipping over to get a refill on her – sparkling whatever it is that Vivienne’s been sneaking her from the capital. No one’s figured out how Lavellan’s gotten Vivienne to get her fancy fizzy drinks or why Vivienne is doing it, but there’s an entire row of bottles with brightly colored liquid that tickle your nose like champagne but contain not a single drop of alcohol.

Dalish snickers from a few tables over.

Krem turns to glare at her.

“She’s just messing with me, isn’t she?”

Dalish clicks her tongue at him. “Don’t make light of a girl in love.”

“She’s messing with me.” Krem repeats. Or she’s actually in love. In which case they might be in trouble.

-

“Everyone has a dog but me.” Lavellan complains, “You met the hero of Ferelden, did you meet her dog?”

“I didn’t meet her, I keep telling you.” Sera replies, “I just got a box that might’ve been from her. I don’t know. Besides, not everyone has a dog. I don’t have a dog.”

Lavellan ignores her, turning to Blackwall, “Did you have a dog?”

“There were a few strays that hung around my house as a boy. I fed one of them, once or twice.”

“Blackwall had a dog.” Lavellan says, turning to Stitches. “Did you have a dog?”

“Not a mabari, but yes. My family had a hunting dog.”

“Everyone had a dog!” Lavellan throws her arms up into the air, narrowly avoiding hitting Skinner upside the head. “Why can’t I have a dog, too? I’d take such good care of him or her! I’d walk him and feed him and pet him and carry him and tuck him in and everything!”

Blackwall barely refrains from saying it’s because the dog will probably end up taking care of her instead. The girl has enough people hoving over her shoulder and watching over her as it is. He’s fairly certain that her stag wouldn’t want to share his self-appointed charge, anyway. He only just barely tolerates the bog unicorn as it is. And mostly because the bog unicorn seems to be out for affection more than anything else.

Frankly, Blackwall thinks that maybe the stag is taking the unicorn under its proverbial wing as well. Collecting a herd of little chicks like a mother falcon.

“You have an entire stable full of – “ Sera waves her hand, “ _Things_.”

“Cullen says that noble warriors have dogs.” Lavellan frowns, jabbing at a piece of meat with her fork. “Dogs. _Dogs_. I like dogs. Who doesn’t like dogs?”

“It’s not because people don’t like dogs that you don’t have one.” Sera says, “I mean. You know. You could just go out and _get a dog_. That’s how it works, innit?”

“No.” Lavellan sulks, resting her cheek on her palm. “The dog has to choose _me_.”

“I think we have to stop letting you listen to Cullen’s stories about Ferelden.” Skinner says. “You’re getting too many ideas. You’re impressionable. The shems have got to you.”

“They have _not_.” Lavellan frowns, “But it just sounds so amazing, doesn’t it? Dogs! Like the wolves and the Emerald Knights! Do you think that’s where the dog lords part came from? They borrowed it from the Emerald Knights?”

“Not everything human is stolen or borrowed from elves.” Stitches says.

Lavellan just _looks_ at him and waves her arm around, clearing her throat. “ _Ahem_?”

“I have no argument for that.” Stitches says as Skinner snorts. “I’m just going to be quiet, now.”

Skinner and Lavellan bump fists.

“The Hero had a dog. The Champion had a dog.” Lavellan jabs at her meat one more time before shoving it in Sera’s direction. “I’m just saying that if everyone is going to put me up there next to them then maybe I should get a dog, too. If I have a throne and a castle and a stable I think I’ve proven myself responsible enough for a dog.”

-

“You bit me!”

“You punched _me!”_

“That’s only because you _kicked me in the gut_.”

“But I only did _that_ because _you_  – “

“I’m going to have to cut in here because in the end it was a brawl and really this could go on for a bit.” Krem says, still holding Sera and Lavellan apart as he marches them up to Cullen’s. “You might start wanting to think of explanations because it really doesn’t sound professional to say the other person started it and you were ending it. It really doesn’t. I’m speaking from experience, here.”

“But she _did_ start it.” Lavellan whines, “And I _was_ ending it. Like Bull told me.”

Krem winces. “Yeah. Probably don’t want to lead with that.”

Lavellan and Sera throw glares at each other.

“You were _supposed_ to be one of the good elves.”

“Just because I’m not trying to convert you or anything doesn’t mean you can casually insult my _gods_ to my _face_ and _not expect me to get mad_.” Lavellan snaps. “I mean. You don’t see _me_ insulting Andraste and the Maker at every turn, do you? _No_.”

“Because they’re actually _real_.”

Krem kicks Cullen’s door open, “Alright, alright. How about we calm down and take a nice sit down and talk about this without trying to rip each other to pieces like the civilized people we like pretending to be in public, hm?”

Cullen looks up and looks extremely dismayed when he sees Krem standing there, elf in each hand.

“Special delivery to lighten up your day, Commander.” Krem says, dumping Sera in one chair and dragging a stool over from the corner for Lavellan. “Thought you might be getting bored. So here.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Cullen sighs, looking between the two women, looking torn between disappointment, resignation, and tired annoyance. “I hope you two aren’t here to start another round of who started what.”

 


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is what it feels like when parents argue. Which one of them gets the kid?”

Cullen hears the loud scramble of nails over stone, and the heavy, familiar panting before he turns and sees the brown and red dog barreling in through Skyhold’s gates.

“Oh. _No_.” Cullen feels himself saying. Because he recognizes that dog. Anyone from Kirkwall can recognize that dog. He knows that dog and those particular war paint designs and where that dog goes he knows there’s only one thing that can follow.

“Varric, you didn’t.” He turns and hisses at the dwarf next to him. “ _You didn’t_.”

Varric hums.

“She will _kill_ you.” Cullen says, running a hand through his hair. “Cassandra will _kill you_.”

“Only if she can catch me.” Varric replies. “You think you could distract her for me?”

“You brought the _Champion of Kirkwall_ to _Skyhold_.” Cullen stares at the dwarf, “ _Nothing_ will distract her from that once she’s found out. And it’s not as if you’re even being _subtle_ about it.” Cullen gestures towards the dog that’s barking and running circles around the courtyard, weaving in between people. “There is no way to pretend _that_ isn’t what it looks like.”

“So. _Can_ you distract her for me?” Varric repeats, and Cullen feels incredibly torn.

“I can try but you’ll owe me.” Cullen replies, “At the very least, I’m going to have to ask you to stop telling blatantly false stories about my time in Kirkwall.”

“I can’t do that, it’s good for _morale_.” Varric replies, sounding affronted. “It makes you relatable.”

“You told people that you convinced me that the Blooming Rose was an apothecaries.” Cullen says, “And that I went there looking for Belladonna.”

“Classic.” Varric chuckles. “How about I promise to stop making up stories about you _currently_?”

Cullen considers it. “I’ll take what I can get. Alright, go. Smuggle Hawke in. And get that dog under control before Cassandra – or, Maker forbid, _Lavellan_  – sees him.”

-

“I don’t think people look like that.” Lavellan says as she trots out of the gallery, squinting as they enter the light.

“They do. You’ve seen people naked.” Dorian replies.

“Yes, but I don’t think people are normally _that big_.” Lavellan says, “Or that – “ She waves her hand. “Muscular. It’s ridiculous really.”

Dorian considers for a moment - “Point. But in all fairness, artistic license is a thing. And we all embellish. I mean – have you read anything Varric has ever written? Pure embellishment. I refuse to believe half of what he’s written about his romance scenes. _Absolutely ridiculous and imaginary_.”

“But that’s not how people look! Why would you make pictures and statues of things that aren’t real?”

“Well. I don’t think people pay to see _average_.” Dorian snorts, “People pay to see extraordinary and lovely and amazing. They pay to see spectacular and biceps the size of melons.”

Lavellan giggles. “It’s so _silly_.”

“And this is why we don’t talk to you about _art_.” Dorian hums, taking her arm and leading her in the direction of a cafe. “You just make us all feel ridiculous.”

“Because you _are!”_

“Someday someone is going to get through to you on this entire concept of fine art. It most likely will not be me.” Dorian admits, “But someone might. Maybe.”

-

“You _bribed_ the Herald of Andraste.” Leliana’s eyebrows raise as she watches Lavellan curled up with pen and paper on the floor. She looks to Josehpine. “You _bribed her_ with _sugar_. And it _worked_. Why didn’t I think of this?”

Leliana is supposed to be the spymaster. She can’t believe that she missed this.

“You’ve bribed her into _forging documents_ for you.” Leliana says, “Josie, it’s _beautiful_.”

Josephine sighs, “Forging is such an ugly word. We’re making _copies_ , Leliana. _Copies_. For us. And our records.”

“Of course.” Leliana stares as Lavellan reproduces the seal of one of the counts who’s been attempting to extort money from them. “I hope you don’t mind me doing the same thing. For our records. Of course. What kind of sugar did you use?”

“It was just some simple pastries. Vanilla and sugar and flour.” Josephine replies. “Very simple, really. Though I know that she likes candy, too. And Vivienne has been buying her bubbling drinks from Val Royeaux.”

“She has a sweet tooth.” Leliana leans against Josephine’s desk.

“Most people we know do. Besides, she’s catching up on things she’s missed.” Josephine says, “She’s never had most of this before. I imagine it’s rather hard to get access to _pineapples_ and _bananas_ in the middle of the woods of the Free Marches.”

“Point.”

Lavellan straightens up, stretching before holding out the finished copy to Josephine. “Is this good?”

“Yes, thank you, Inquisitor. This is very helpful.” Josephine holds out a plate of cookies. Lavellan takes on and stuffs it into her cheek. Like a squirrel.

-

“This is what it feels like when parents argue. Which one of them gets the kid?”

“You wanna tell them that to their faces?” Varric asks as they watch Cassandra and Cullen argue. “I thought the deer was one of the parents.”

“Let’s not complicate this anymore than it already is.” Blackwall snorts, “Leave the deer out of it.”

“Consider it like a tournament of parents.” Sera says, drawing an invisible diagram in the air. “Reigning champion is the reindeer. Cullen and Cassandra are dukin’ it out to see who’ll match up.”

“He’s not a reindeer.” Cole says from where he’s been confined to the other side of the table. “And he loves her very much.”

“Sera was joking.”

“Someone tell it to stop talking around me.”

“Let the boy be, Sera.” Blackwall watches as Cassandra and Cullen continue to go back and forth. “What were they arguing about again?”

“Eating habits. Probably.” Sera mutters. “Or at least they _should_. No one ever says anything about the shit that goes on in that mouth of hers. I think I saw her chewing on a branch. A fucking _branch_. I don’t even know where it came from, we were in the middle of the Western Approach. Where does she even find a tree branch?”

Cullen and Cassandra are standing by the back wall of the tavern in front of Bull’s bench as he prevents Lavellan from meandering off. He has her by the back of her tunic as she attempts to squeeze out a window. They watch as he pulls her back and she twists around and curls up on her side, head on his leg, playing with a bit of bright pink string. She’s talking and he’s talking and the other two are arguing and pointing, now.

“Maybe they split ways and the kid goes to the nice god-parent.” Varric says. “Or, you know. She disappears into the wilderness never to be seen or heard from again.”

“Yeah, that last bit sounds more likely.” Sera says.

“I’m going with the god-parent theory.” Blackwall replies.

“She doesn’t have a god-parent.” Cole mutters, “Her parents are elves.”


	80. Chapter 80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like sunlight and grass underneath her bare feet, this hunger is familiar. A friend.

“I see ghosts, sometimes.” Lavellan whispers, cheek pressed against his back as he leans forward to nudge the fire awake. He can feel her small nails digging, scraping over his skin as they curl into little fists. The flats of her fingers pressing in between scars. “Sometimes something happens. I hear a sound. Light shines in a certain way. Sometimes a candle’s fire even just – flickers. And then I’m surrounded in ghosts. Does that happen for you?”

“No.” Bull says. “You’ve killed a lot of people, Boss.”

“They were trying to hurt me.” Lavellan replies, her nose pressed against his skin. “But I sent people to die. It’s different. You’ve sent people off to die before, Bull.”

“That’s what it means to be in charge. You do what has to be done. You make a decision. You deal with the consequences. And you move on.”

“Sometimes I see Hawke’s face.” Her voice catches, levels, empties. Makes Bull think of a moored boat, hitting against the dock, trying to pull away, smashing back again. Paint chipping off the sides, creaks in the boards. Water leaking in. Slowly bringing the boat down with every strike against the pier. “Sometimes I see Hawke’s face. And I hear Hawke’s dog. I think of the letters Varric writes. The letters he won’t be getting back. Sometimes I see scouts and soldiers I’ve talked to. Their names and their faces, I remember their mothers and sisters. Their brothers and their dreams. Their children, left behind. Already gone.”

He feels her resting against his back, leaning against the slant of him.

“Here’s the thing, Boss.” Bull says, letting his eye un-focus. He sees nothing and everything. The world un-focuses, nothing is clear, everything is. He is at once not here, somewhere not real at all and far away inside, and everywhere here. He sees every spark of light from the fire, hears every ambient sound, and feels every slight shift of air. “Those people? They died for you. That’s responsibility. But they chose it. They knew what they were signing up for. They all knew that this is a war. A battle. And no war is won without some kind of loss. It wasn’t like they didn’t know what could happen to them. They were _soldiers_.”

“Hawke wasn’t a soldier.”

“Hawke looked in the face of death and chose it. You can’t let them haunt you. You can’t let the choices of other people haunt you.”

“I put them there.”

“You made space for them and they chose to jump in. You can’t let their fall linger.”

“But it’s not their deaths that linger, Bull.” She whispers. “That’s not what their ghosts are. I see a flicker of a candle, and suddenly the scout who taught me how to make marble cake is waving at me. I almost wave back, but then the flicker is over and the scout is dead again. Sometimes the glare of the sun through the window gets into my eye and I see some of the soldiers from the marshes coming towards me, waving, about to say something. They walk past me after saying hello. And I watch them go down the stairs, but I never see them walk out of the rotunda. I taste coffee with cream and there’s a hand clapping me on the back telling me I’ve done well.”

He closes his eyes.

“I see a certain letter, the letter _a_ or _q_ and I think the letter is from the friend of a friend. And I am excited to have someone help me read it but it turns out to be someone else’s letter _a_ or _q_ , and the stories don’t match up at all. And I get scared because the ghosts are everywhere. Those are the ghosts I mean. Do you see them?”

“Yes.” Bull replies, as her arms circle around his waist. He touches his fingertips to the backs of her cold hands. “I see them every time we go to the coast.”

“They aren’t dead.”

“They would have been. If it were up to me. They would have been.”

He feels her squeeze in tight against his back.

“I see their ghosts everywhere.” She says, another smashing of waves against the boat and pier. Another ripple of water entering new cracks. “And I miss them.”

“Don’t let them haunt you. You can’t let it happen. There are people who are still alive who need you.”

-

Lavellan feels the sloshing of liquid in her stomach. It’s hunger, she thinks. Not the real hunger, not yet. Early morning hunger. An in between hunger. This is familiar. This hunger is her friend. A little edge to nudge her around. Keep her on her toes. It’s a little hunger. A companion that tinges against all her memories.

Like sunlight and grass underneath her bare feet, this hunger is familiar. A friend.

It’s not like the other hunger. The one that gnaws and pangs, that makes you dizzy and shake. The one that makes you stop wanting to move. The one that just makes you curl up, hot then cold and colder, knees and ankles pressed together until it takes too much effort to do even that. So you just lie there, half curled on yourself because it’s too much to actually try to hold any position. Too much to lock your muscles.

That hunger is familiar, too. But not her friend. That hunger makes her weak. It means things are bad. It means that someone isn’t going to survive. It means that _she_ might not survive. It means that this is the end for something, somewhere.

Little pieces of light, broken off a bit at a time. Littered through time and Thedas. Winters and autumns, too harsh. Summers too hot. Springs that flood.

Lavellan pushes a leaf into her mouth, sucking on the coolness of it. A little stone to break off the edge. Chipping off edges a little bit at a time. A little hunger is good, as long as it’s kept little.

Just like how a candle is good, as long as you don’t tip it over and set fire to the building.

A little fire. A little blade. A little hunger.

Lavellan sucks the leaf in her mouth, feels the rough grain of it on the flat of her tongue, the smooth sheen of it on the roof of her mouth. She twists it around her mouth, tickling at the edge, toying with the stem with her teeth.

A friendly hunger. It’s maybe the one thing familiar about this entire thing. This sort of poverty.


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alright, alright." Dorian rolls his eyes. "Don't you have advisors for this kind of thing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next two weeks I'm on vacation, updates to this fic have been queued to my tumblr- heartslogos. See you in two weeks!

There is something clean and calmly efficient about the way she kills. Quiet. Like her. Not a detachment - he does not think she can ever be detached from anything. It is - a sense of, if not detachment, then quiet ambivalence. Certain deaths do not touch her. They glance off her. Like leaves in wind. Some death hit her harder, hail in a storm or burning flecks of ash. And there are the deaths that linger with her, smoke in the lungs that makes her eyes go red and run salt. But there are these quiet moments of death that slide off her. A moment that is not ignored or unnoticed, just - quietly acknowledged as a little note in the margin.  
  
She has those quiet moments of death, where she kills. With magic or her hands, it doesn't seem to matter which.  
  
He has seen her crouching above a dead man, her thin hands around his neck, a loud crack fading in the ears, and something humming-laughing in her voice as she carries on her conversation. And afterwards, she will close the eyes and, if she can, mouth of that quiet moment and go through his pockets and walk away with hers full of his life.  
  
"To live is to die." She says, shrugging as she washes slightly steaming blood off her hands with snow. "To live is to fight. To fight is to lose. To lose is to die. They drew their blade, I drew mine. Simple."  
  
It is a quiet thing, a thing that becomes almost ritualistic. Watching her kill.  
  
Hypnotic. It can draw one out of oneself. The clean and gentle way she does it.  
  
It is like her bare-foot walk, or the way she plays with string. A contemplation in motion. There is some small and intangible presence there,  built between her and the action.  
  
"To survive is to fight. To fight is to kill. To survive is to kill. There are sometimes things wrong with that." She says, rabbit by the ears as she sets it down by the fire to skin and prepare it. "But only _sometimes_. The rest of the time you just have to be as kind as you can be when surviving."  
  
And that's it, isn't it?  
  
She is _kind_ , even as she kills a man looking him in the eye. It does not last long. It is not excessive. There is no hate or malicious intent behind it. A simple and practical, understandable, underlying statement.  
  
"I want to live." She says, fishing out her curved needle to stitch together a small cut on her own thigh, limp-hopping away from the corpse.  
  
It is not detachment. Simply business. A transaction. Them for her. Death for life. Loss for win.  
  
-  
  
"The Herald is not what I was expecting." Yvette says and Josephine sighs into her champagne glass.  
  
"She never is what _anyone_ was expecting." It is usually a good thing. But right now it is a very stressful thing.  
  
"Is she alright? She is a little - " Bless Yvette and her kindness, Josephine thinks -  
  
"She doesn't like the shoes." She replies, and refuses to turn around and watch the Herald of Andraste like a mother hen. She's certain that by now she's entered Leliana and Cullen's line of sight. She'll be fine. Probably. Maybe. _Hopefully_. "Or the uniform."  
  
"I do not blame her. They look awfully - dull."  
  
"They were initially meant just for the Commander - "  
  
"On _him_ the look absolutely marvelous."  
  
"I'll be sure to tell him that for you, Yvette. Anyway - she saw them and she wanted them and the only way to make it work was if we all wore them." Josephine shakes her head. "She didn't get enough time to wear the boots in."  
  
"Well. At the very least she's charming."  
  
Lavellan is very good at being charming, poised, and eloquent if she tries very, _very_ hard. Josephine is always deeply impressed whenever she sees it happen. Leliana has plans to try and make her a bard. Josephine has had at least twelve official requests from the Chargers to make her their new hire after this is over. And fourteen unofficial ones.  
  
So far.  
  
This _month_.  
  
"She is." Josephine replies. She's not certain which part of Lavellan is more charming. The one that she works very hard to maintain on the rare occasion she feels the need to, or her normal, every-day stream of thought. At this point Josephine prefers the latter over the former. Perhaps it's due to how long she's been exposed to it?  
  
"You should invite her to the house, Josephine. Mama and papa would adore her to pieces." Yvette says, leaning around Josephine, "She's just so _darling_. Oh - I think she's lost."  
  
Josephine refuses to turn around. Sometimes you have to throw your chicks out of their nest to teach them to fly.  
  
"She'll be fine." Josephine says. "Before I invite her over, perhaps we could sort out this whole art gallery first. Starting with what you are actually going to paint."  
  
-  
  
"I don't know what I think about it just yet, that's why I'm asking you about what you think about it." Lavellan says, folding bits of scrapped notes into flowers and the odd bird or two. "I don't know the topic well enough to have an opinion."  
  
" _Everyone_ has an opinion on something." Dorian replies, "Even if it isn't well informed. The well informed part comes later."  
  
"But _Dorian_ I want to be well informed _now_." She blows air into a paper ball, batting it in his direction. Dorian rolls his eyes, smacking it away from his face. "Come on. How am I supposed to choose who goes on this shem throne? A throne that was built on the bones and corpses of my people?"  
  
"Well, first off, you probably should try not thinking of it like that for a few seconds." Dorian replies. "I mean, if you're supposed to be keeping them alive, thinking about how they utterly destroyed your people most likely isn't going to  make you want to do anyone any favors. Most likely you'll end up getting a headache and doing something utterly reprehensible. You've already got _me_ along to do that so I don't see why _you'd_ need to do it, too. Besides, I look utterly dashing when I do it. You couldn't hope to compete with me. When you get cross you just look like a rodent that's about to sneeze."  
  
"I do _not_."  
  
Dorian hums as Lavellan attempts to whack at him, his hand planted firmly on her forehead and holding her at arm's length as he pretends to think. "I'd say - chipmunk. No, wait, too _round_. Squirrel? No. Perhaps not a rodent. A badger. _Yes_. That works. A very irritated looking badger that's about to sneeze. Yes. Just like that."  
  
Lavellan sticks her tongue out.  
  
"Careful." Dorian says, "Someone might just yank that one day."  
  
Lavellan huffs and throws a paper flower at him.  
  
"Dorian."  
  
"Alright, alright." Dorian rolls his eyes. "Don't you have advisors for this kind of thing?"  
  
"I do. And then I have you." Lavellan replies. "And hahren. And Bull. And Vivienne. But mostly you."  
  
"I am so very flattered." Dorian picks up one of the paper flowers and turns it over in his hands as he thinks. "Well. Celene is the woman who burned the alienage to the ground to cover up her disastrous love affair. But she is stable and working for peace. Keeping her on the throne will mean less clean up, a lot less blood, and most likely more stability. More stability, more strength. Gaspard on the other hand, would mean unrest, reorganization, a period of restructuring. But he is firm and a capable military leader, which is what is currently needed. I suppose it comes down to what you want. At the moment, Gaspard looks to be a good choice. But in the long run he could prove disastrous to Orlais and overall detrimental to the state of Thedas if we enter a period of relative peace. Celene is not as strong, militarily speaking, and has her own problems with her cabinet at the moment. But overall she is established and stable, and prefers diplomacy over outright war. Helpful?"

"Very."

"Good. I am to be so. Now throw those in another direction, would you?  Like, say,  _over_ the railing at the grumpy old man who makes the entire place smell like paint?"


	82. Chapter 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She wants a griffon, now." Cassandra hisses. "To put in the stable. To keep her unicorn and dracolisk company."

There's a clumsy reverence to the way she holds the book he hands to her. He can tell she cannot read by the way her eyes skip over the page. Not reading or scanning, just _seeing_. A picture instead of words. She holds the book delicately on her spread palms, as if holding it back to him to take. Like holding clothing or a child, arms out, palms steady.  
  
"It is for you." Solas says, gently pushing it back to her. "For your studies. You have many questions, da'len. When there is no time, perhaps you may find answers in this."  
  
"I can't read." She replies, "And books are expensive, hahren. I cannot accept this."  
  
"You will learn to read, because I will teach you." Solas replies, hand held up to stall her response, "And I must insist that you take it. As a gesture of good will, consider it a favor, if you like. Or perhaps a business exchange."  
  
"But I have given you nothing in return."  
  
"It has been - a very, _very_ long time since I have been referred to with _respect_ as hahren." Solas replies. He can no longer remember the last time he was looked to by one of the people as a teacher, a guide. As someone whom was _wanted_ to shape life. "I am repaid with that. And if I am to be your hahren, is it not appropriate that I provide you with the instruments of your instruction?"  
  
Lavellan frowns, contemplating the book before slowly bringing it to her chest, gingerly holding it to her.  
  
"I - I guess.  Yes. _Ma serannas_ , hahren."  She gives him a small bow and Solas touches his fingertips to her shoulder.  
  
"Do not dwell on it, da'len. It is important for you to learn to read. And there is information that you can find in books that will amaze you. It will give you much."  
  
"I feel like I have already been given so much." She replies, "I feel _rich_."  
  
Rich over a simple book, Solas thinks. And regrets. So many regrets.  
  
She is simple. And she is honest. She is gentle. And she has been so shaped by his history.  
  
She shames him. And he has shamed her.  
  
"I have no doubt that by the time everyone we know is done with you, you will be swimming in books. You will need a library of your very own to house them."  
  
Lavellan's cheeks tinge pink with excitement, "A library? What is _that_?"  
  
"A place with many shelves, filled with many books on every subject."  
  
Lavellan rocks on her feet. "Every subject? Many shelves? _Many_ books? How many books? Ten? _Twenty_?"  
  
"Dozens. Hundreds."  
  
" _Hundreds_?" She whispers, eyes so wide that he worries a little, voice going high and thin. " _Hundreds_ of books? There are hundreds of _books_? That exist?"  
  
"Yes. There are - an innumerable number of books in the world." Solas replies and she lets out a small wheeze. " _Breathe_."  
  
"That's - that's astounding." She says in between little gasps for air. "Innumerable? _Innumerable_? Bless Sylaise, that - that's so -. I'm going to sit down now."  
  
-  
  
The first stage of acceptance is brief, and slips in between denial and bargaining like paper. And is torn out again with rage. This first stage enters quietly, in the purple hours of the morning with her eyes large and black, and mouth thin and pale and closed, her chin resting on her knees.  
  
There is only one person to know this stage, this first and brief arrival of acceptance.  
  
Cole's back slots up to hers, warm with the faintest touch of magic that sends shivers through the veins. Like lyrium but gentler, kinder. A song of coexistence rather than seduction.  
  
"They're dead." She whispers. "Each and every single one."  
  
Mahanon's charm digs indentations into her white-knuckled palms.  
  
"No." Cole says. "There's still _you_. You are not dead. So not _everyone_ is dead. And they are in you, right now. Screaming, laughing, burning, bathing, cooking, crying, living, singing. Alive only when you remember for them to be."  
  
"To live is to survive." She says, "But there is no _survival_ in this. Only hate. And spite. And _arrogance_."  
  
"Some were afraid. Most were angry. A lot were greedy. But there were some who didn't _know_ anything at all, and did what they were told whether they wanted to or not."  
  
"We were never that large of a clan."  
  
"Some were angry. Most were afraid. A lot were resigned. But there some who didn't know what to feel at all, and did anything they could that would or would not help."  
  
"There might have been a few dozen of us, at any given moment. We would take in city elves, or elves from other clans. Halflings, too. A lot of people were transient, migrating to other clans. But we took them in for however long they needed. We weren't a large clan. We were so _careful_."  
  
"A long list of names committed to memory. Those who have come. Those who have gone. Those who stay. Those who wander but call these aravels _home_."  
  
"We were so careful, Cole. So very, very _careful_."  
  
"You were their First. You are their treasure. Their _bright_ thing. Burning against the shemlens, proving how _good_ the people are. Always will be."  
  
Lavellan shudders out a quiet breath and closes her eyes.  
  
She prays.  
  
Epitaphs for the dead.  
  
Keeper. Mother. Father. Mahanon.  
  
Come morning she is no longer praying. She is planning.  
  
To live is to survive. To survive is to fight. To fight is to expect resistance. She is the Inquisitor. She is the last Lavellan. She is _planning_ her resistance.  
  
-  
  
"You told her about _griffons_." Cassandra snaps, Blackwall shrugs.  
  
"She kept asking me why I always carved griffons." Blackwall replies. And wonders if he would prefer Cassandra going back to angrily ignoring him rather than angrily yelling at him over the Inquisitor. "I couldn't say _nothing_."  
  
"She wants a griffon, now." Cassandra hisses. "To put in the _stable_. To keep her unicorn and dracolisk company."  
  
"All things considered, a griffon probably would keep that lizard in place. Though it might try to eat the nugalope." Blackwall says, putting down his hammer and chisel. "Besides, they're _extinct_. It's not as if her finding one is an actual concern."  
  
Cassandra snorts.  
  
"One. When she finds out that they are extinct she will ask _why_. Then she will most likely cry, go into mourning, or attempt to find the last remaining griffon in Thedas." Cassandra says. And - she has a point. "Two. No one wants to deal with the repercussions of Lavellan finding out that griffons are extinct. Three. If she does choose to attempt to find the last remaining griffon in Thedas, the chances are that she _will_ find an entire flock of them and somehow enchant them to do her bidding. Do you want to deal with an entire flock of supposedly extinct griffons descending upon Skyhold? _No_."  
  
Which is - a valid point. Considering that she's practically tripped over active high dragons everywhere she's gone, went on a trip through time, and gone through the Fade physically twice now, he wouldn't put it past her.  
  
"Maybe she'd let us ride one." Blackwall says, earning a derisive snort from Cassandra.  
  
"And _four_. You saw what she was like when Cullen told her about the mabari. Do we really want her doing that with griffons, now?"  
  
"It did get her a puppy." An entire kennel full of puppies. All of which follow her around Skyhold like baby ducks.  
  
Cassandra glares at him. He holds up his hands in surrender.  
  
"Well, it's too late _now_." Blackwall says. "I've already told her all I know."  
  
"I know _that_. She's been asking Solas about the damn things for the past two hours." Cassandra replies, "The last question I heard from here was if griffon babies are referred to as chicks or kittens and what to feed them."  
  
Blackwall winces.  
  
Cassandra sighs.  
  
"If she does actually find any griffons _you_ are going to take care of them." She snaps, "We can't afford to pay Dennet and the stable hands any more than we pay them already."  
  
"Sounds fair." If Dennet can take care of a lizard he's never seen before, Blackwall is fairly sure he could manage - in theory - a griffon.


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Watching her meditate is very soothing.” Solas replies, “I find that in watching her, it brings a sense of quiet and ease much faster.”

“She _meditates_. Are you trying to trick me? Is this some sort of grand _joke_?” Dorian asks, squinting at Solas as they attempt to organize all the scraps of paper Lavellan has been fortunate enough to stumble over. Honestly, the girl’s luck is amazing. She just stumbles upon letters, old books, essays, magical theories, incriminating evidence without knowing what it is and decides to hoard it.

“Watching her meditate is very soothing.” Solas replies, “I find that in watching her, it brings a sense of quiet and ease much faster.”

“She can’t even sit still for two seconds without gazing off into the distance, like some tragic heroine in one of Cassandra’s novels.” Dorian snorts, “Someone has to hover over her to remind her why she’s supposed to be very still. The only time she’s still is in a fight when she’s hiding. I refuse to believe that she can meditate.”

“It is not the same kind of meditation we are used to.” Solas explains, “Dalish clans have various methods of meditation, as diverse and scattered as they are.”

“In my experience meditation usually involves being still and silent. And focused. I can only say one of those things applies to her at any given time, but not all at once. When did you even find her meditating?”

“Once, back at Haven a few days after she was released from prison.” Solas answers, “At night I saw her slip out. I was concerned, we did not yet know the anchor’s true effects and I thought that perhaps she was running back to her clan. I found her on the frozen lake, underneath one of the docks, meditating. And then once again, when we first came to Skyhold, I found her in one of the unused and broken rooms. To my knowledge, Lavellan seeks to meditate in private.”

“And only when I need to.” Dorian startles, clutching his chest and closing his eyes.

“Fasta _vass_ , woman. If this is the result of you and Cole being together all the time I’m going to have to put my foot down and stop you before you kill half of Skyhold via heart attack.”

Lavellan doesn’t look the least bit sorry and crouches next to the table, chin resting on the edge as she watches them arrange papers by location, relevance, and connection.

“I only meditate when I need to.” She continues, “Only when I’m not settled. When I am not one. That’s when I meditate. Not like the rest of you. You’re _always_ meditating. I used to think that maybe it meant that there was something very, very wrong, but hahren explained that that’s just how others do it.”

She tilts her head. “Though hahren does it weird, too.”

Dorian turns to Solas for explanation.

“The Lavellan clan’s meditation technique is one of movement. It is a personal experience meant to create a sense of unity with the self, the world around, and if the person is a mage – their mana and the Fade itself.” He says, “It is a dance to know the body, to know the self. They do not meditate for silence or clarity of the mind, or even enlightenment. They meditate for contemplation of certainty, and to reunite fragmented pieces of their selves.”

Dorian turns to Lavellan, “Just everything about you has to be side-ways and complicated, doesn’t it?”

Lavellan rolls her eyes and starts folding one of the papers close to her into a paper ball.

“Well everything about _you_ has to be up-side-down and crazy.”

Dorian can’t actually refute that so he settles with flicking a small spark of light at her forehead.

Solas sighs and Dorian wonders if he ever wishes he were surrounded in adults who acted their age.

-

Krem sticks his head out the tavern window when he hears a strange sounding thump followed by some poorly muffled giggles. Somehow, he isn’t very surprised when he sees the Inquisitor and Sera tangled in a heap with a large jar of – well. They’re either cookies or weirdly shaped rocks and neither would be very strange to see.

It speaks volumes about his experience in the Inquisition that this really doesn’t mean anything to him at this point.

“Your worship.” He says, leaning his upper body out the window and making himself comfortable for what is most likely going to be a very interesting story.

“Hello, Krem.” Lavellan says, awkwardly waving her arm at him. “Good morning.”

“Sera.”

“Hey.”

Krem waits a beat to see if either of them is actually going to say anything before twisting up to look at the roof from where they fell.

“I didn’t realize raining elves was in the weather.” Krem says, turning back down to them as they sort themselves out, “Want to explain that miracle?”

Sera and Lavellan exchange glances before bursting out into another giggling fit.

“I figured as much.” Krem sighs, “I’m going to guess no one’s hurt? I don’t need to pull Stitches out of his keg as he drowns himself in misery?”

Krem catches Stitches’ hand before he can punch his hip.

“We’re okay.” Lavellan says, “Mostly.”

“Bruises on top of bruises.” Sera says, and then she catches Lavellan’s eye and they burst out into more laughter.

Krem doesn’t think he’s ever going to get an explanation, and even if he did, he probably wouldn’t understand it.

“Carry on then, ladies.” Krem replies, dipping an invisible hat, “If you need anything I’ll be in here and away from you, so you should probably ask someone like Blackwall or Dorian.”

-

“I’ve just realized that she could get away with literal murder. You _have_ gotten away with murder.” Sera says, turning with wide eyes to Lavellan who’s half-asleep and propped up on Cassandra’s shield. “Andraste – _you get away with so much shit_. How did I never notice this?”

“Because you were getting away with her?” Varric ventures.

Lavellan yawns.

“Self defense isn’t a crime, she isn’t getting away with anything.” Cassandra points out, eyes narrow as she considers how she can get her shield without waking Lavellan up. “Most of the people we kill have bounties on them anyway. We’re at _war_.”

“No. Let’s think this out.” Sera says, “She – and us as like, accessories to the crime – kill people. And steal stuff. And like. Do a lot of property damage. But we get away with it. Because it’s _her_. We could do so much _shit_. Like – if she ever decided to go glowy-evil-person she would probably get pretty far with it before someone tried to stop her.”

“I think you’re taking that a bit too far.” Varric says, frowning, “We’d stop her.”

“She is not beyond law.” Cassandra points out. “She remains responsible for her actions.”

“Yeah, I know that. Duh. I’m just saying that we probably wouldn’t even realize she’d gone bad until she was – I don’t even know, right? She’s just that – you know. _Her_. Prancing in sunlight, talking to animals, hanging up-side down. She could make evil look nice.”

Cassandra and Varric exchange a look of dawning realization.

“We are so lucky you’re on the good side, Poppy.” Varric addresses the elf, who’s eyes are flickering in her sleep. Varric is fairly sure she’s chasing something because her leg keeps twitching.


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It doesn’t matter.” She shrugs, pointing in the direction of the Breach. “It’s there. I was there. So it doesn’t matter if it gets better or worse. I had to. I just had to.”

“You could have ran, run, ripped away. Forever and always. Leaving no trace. Not even Leliana would be able to find you, because you would no longer exist, I would be able to find you if I were there because you slip through things like wind and water and better than sand. Like memories forgotten. It’s what you do. That is frightening. I am glad you didn’t, but you could have, and you didn’t.” Cole says, a quiet shadow close to her back as she explores the broken stone of Skyhold, feet tentative as she tests stone and creaking wood.

Cole stares at her feet, fingers picking at the fraying hem of his shirt.

“You were so frightened. You wanted to run. But you didn’t. You stayed. It didn’t feel good. But you stayed and you didn’t _know_ if it would be good, like now. You didn’t know. So why did you? It would have hurt less to run.”

“Sometimes you hurt to heal.” Lavellan replies, pausing before giving a section of the floor a hard kick. The wood collapses, smelling like dust and old, tired sun. “And it’s the First’s job to heal. And to hurt. Besides, if this is something I can do, why shouldn’t I do it?”

“Because it hurt.” Cole frowns. “You – wanted the hurt?”

Lavellan pauses. “No. I was very scared. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like anyone. Not even hahren.” She folds her hands behind her back, turning a slow circle so her face catches the sunbeams from the holes in the roof, dream catcher, a web glistening with diamonds of dew, a net with butterflies, an embracing petal spilling open and spilling.

“But you stayed.”

“I stayed. I stay.” She hums, smiling a little. “I think it paid off, don’t you?”

“You thought of running.”

“I did.”

“But you didn’t. I don’t understand.” Cole frowns harder. “There was no one to heal that hurt. You couldn’t have _known_ it would get better.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She shrugs, pointing in the direction of the Breach. “It’s there. I was there. So it doesn’t matter if it gets better or worse. I had to. I just had to.”

Cole thinks on it.

“Stubborn, strong, silent, serene. Stay. Staying. Power. _Not_ pride. A sunflower is not proud, it simply _is_ , stubborn and strong. Stretching upwards. Yes. I think I understand. It snaps but it reaches anyway and a hundred more come from it anyway. It’s alright. Reach for the sky. Seize it. Stay. Yes.”

-

“I think I am lost.” Lavellan says, gasping for breath as the Hart slows to a stop. “I don’t see the nug, do you? Oh, look! Wildflowers. I don’t think they’re poisonous. We should bring some back for Cole.”

Lavellan looks around, wonders how far a stuffed nug could’ve flown, not far, right? Lavellan likes the nugs. They’re cute. She watched Krem make them for a bit, and helped him pick out button eyes.

He gave her an entire bag of buttons and that’s why Krem is one of her favorites. He gives her really wonderful presents for no reason at all! It’s not even close to her _name day_. She wonders if that’s a thing shems do. Give presents whenever. She supposes they could afford it.

Lavellan picks some flowers, careful as she ties them together with grass in bundles. She can hear her hart grazing, the soft sounds of his occasional chuff, the shake of his head and low exhales.

She hears the trickle of a stream nearby, clicking her tongue for him to follow as she picks her way over grass and flowers and stone. The sun shines and it’s warm, just a faint touch of warmth in the cool mountain air. Lavellan sucks in a deep breath and swears she can feel the air cleaning her inside out.

She stops on the rocky edge of the thin stream, wonders if she should follow it up or down. Someone will come for her eventually, worse comes to worse she’s pretty sure she could rough it out until she finds a road. But if she goes upstream maybe she’ll find a waterfall. If she goes downstream, maybe she’ll find a pond or a lake.

“You think someone will come very soon?” She turns to her hart who puffs into her face before bending to drink. Lavellan hums.

The day is still young. And there’s nothing really pressing at Skyhold.

Lavellan climbs onto her hart’s back, she likes it when he isn’t wearing a saddle and she thinks he likes it too. She rubs her face against his pelt and loosely fists her hands into it. Yawns.

“Well. You probably know what’s best.” She says, “Wake me up if there’s danger.” The hart huffs and slowly starts to walk upstream. “And if you find that nug pick it up. Krem said I could keep the ones we find.”

-

“You made her a little mountain of animals. You are going to _spoil_ her.” Dalish says as she watches Krem cut fabric for what looks to be a small purple and blue colored snoufleur.

“She deserves nice things.” Krem says, “In case you haven’t noticed her flinging herself off of buildings and bridges to save lives and stuff.”

“You’re _spoiling_ her.” Dalish repeats, attempting to take the fabric from him. “Let me do it. At the rate you’re going you’re going to make her make you the favorite. It should be _me_ , of course.”

“I’m not. Besides, everyone knows Dorian is the favorite. So what’s the point?”

“Favorite of the Chargers, I mean.” Dalish rolls her eyes, succeeds in getting the fabric and scissors from him. “How come you never make any of us stuffed animals?”

“I did.” Krem points out, “I made you a stuffed rabbit. You set it on fire.”

“It was an _accident_.” Dalish sniffs. “I liked that animal. It was cute. And soft. I liked its little red eyes. You could have made me another one.”

“I would, if I thought it stood a chance at surviving.” Krem snorts, resting his chin on his palm as he watches her finish cutting. “I didn’t even know you liked it that much.”

“Well I _did_ , thank you.” Dalish huffs, “And you’re making her an entire zoo of animals.”

“I stress sew.” Krem replies, tucking some hair behind her ear, tapping the tip and earning a swat at the head. “Just like how Skinner stress stalks and Rocky stress explodes. Stitches stress eats. I don’t know what Grim does.”

“Grim _doesn’t_ stress.” Dalish laughs. Krem concedes the point.

“And you stress nag.” Krem says, dodging a punch, grinning. “So I think it all balances out quite nicely.”

“Well what does the Chief do?” Dalish says, arranging fabric pieces on the table.

“Do you even need to ask that?”


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You play dirty." Dorian sighs, "Alright, I'll go get my things. When do we go?"

"You're practically a child." Dorian gasps, "We are being led by a _child_."  
  
Lavellan snickers and Cullen shoots her a dismayed look.  
  
"Dorian, I'm only _one_ year younger than you are." Cullen says, "Less than that, a few _months_."  
  
"You're a _child_." Dorian repeats, "The armies of the Inquisition are being led by a young child. Do you realize that - ignoring Cole - you are the _fourth_ youngest. Sera, Lavellan, Josephine, then you.  You make the rest of us feel old."  
  
"You don't _look_ old." Lavellan replies, "Cullen looks older than you."  
  
"Because Cullen is a sad, _sad_ , world weary man who's never been to a _spa_." Dorian deadpans as Cullen sighs and makes another attempt at leaving before being dragged back down by them both. "Look at his rugged features. I bet you started breaking hearts young. Younger than now. Ridiculous. No one younger than me should _ever_ be in charge of me."  
  
Cullen snorts, "Dorian, unless you've signed on to be a soldier and have been meticulous about skipping drills and training, I am not in charge of you." Cullen takes a moment to stare at a wall in baffled consternation, "Now that I think on it, I don't think you _ever_ formally signed into the Inquisition. You're just _here_ all the time."  
  
"Dorian is my _entourage_." Lavellan replies, fluffing his mantle with little flicks of her fingers, laughing with every pass of her fingers through the fur. Dorian makes a horrified noise and Lavellan adds on, "That's what Vivienne told me, at least."  
  
"I'm going to get that woman." Dorian hisses. " _Entourage_ , what does that  make _her_?"  
  
"She said _personal etiquette trainer_." Lavellan leans around Cullen to peer into Dorian's face, "Also, you don't _look_ thirty. I mean, I thought you were _my_ age. Do all shemlen age strangely?"  
  
"I think you mean _normally_." Cullen says, easing her back into sitting position so that he can reach his ale. He's going to need more of it by the end of this conversation, probably. "I'm fairly certain it's you elves who age differently."  
  
"You all look a great deal younger than you should be." Dorian agrees, "Look at that bald miser that haunts your rotunda."  
  
Lavellan squeaks a laugh that sounds one part insulted and one part delighted.  
  
"That man is probably in his forties. Maybe fifties. I don't know and I don't think he'd tell. He looks to be in his thirties. You, you are in your twenties - "  
  
" _One_ and twenty summers!" She crows out, proud as she throws her shoulders back and beams, "Just last autumn!"  
  
" - and you look _twelve_." Dorian finishes, throwing himself out of the way as Lavellan flings herself over Cullen to try and swat at him -  
  
"I _don't_ look twelve!"  
  
Cullen snags her around the waist and sits her back down, reaching out to grab at one of the numerous straps on Dorian's clothes to keep him from falling over the edge of the bench.  
  
"If you're so affronted by my being younger then maybe you should act the part, then." Cullen says.  
  
Dorian sniffs, "You are prematurely old,  Commander. On one hand, kudos to you, it does wonders for your already fantastically glistening reputation. On the other hand - _Andraste_ , man, you only live once. Enjoy yourself."  
  
-  
  
 Lavellan is tracing patterns in the sand as Solas and Cassandra argue about something - Varric isn't sure at this point. It's hot and windy and they're all cranky. But Lavellan is a person capable of finding something interesting and entertaining in watching grass grow, so while the metaphorical mommy and daddy are fighting, Lavellan is crouched down in the shadow Cassandra casts and using a stick she picked up to draw.  
  
"Find anything fun to draw, Poppy?" Varric asks, and wishes that he could say no to her when she asks him to do things like go off to the desert to hunt dragons and darkspawn. But if she can get someone like Madame Vivienne to go to the Foggy Mire, or someone like Sera to prance around the Emerald Graves with her, then he really stands no chance.  
  
"Do you ever wonder what a unicorn would look like with wings, Varric?" She replies, "I think it would be _neat_."  
  
Poppy tends to think a lot of things would be neat.  
  
Varric has had the dubious honor of receiving many objects she has found neat. Everything from broken egg shells - she says that the film that lines them is useful for stuff but so far only Cole and Solas have been able to agree with her on that one - and cut up pieces of potato eyes - weird, but that one he can kind of get, after talking to Cullen about it, the guy comes from a family of farmers -, and a bit of red-orange cotton tied around an acorn with dark brown string - "Because it reminds her of _you_.", Cole says as Varric considers what to do with it.  
  
Varric looks down at the rather impressive drawing she has going. Huh. He didn't think you could actually shade things drawing in sand. But yeah, Poppy's got a pretty detailed looking image here.  
  
"Shame it's gonna get blown away by the wind." Varric says.  
  
"But isn't that one of the best parts? It's going to get erased." Lavellan says, "And only you and me would have seen it and it'll be gone. It's life is so short. And every moment counts."  
  
Varric sighs, adjusting Bianca on his back, feeling his clothes stick to his skin with sweat.  
  
"Poppy, sometimes you are ridiculously profound. It makes my head hurt."  
  
Lavellan laughs and dashes the drawing with her hand, and draws a quick cartoon of what is quite possibly a fainting dwarf.  
  
"Very funny, kid." Varric ruffles her hair, "Better put on more of that cream before you burn. You're starting to look a little red. And not in an attractive way, either.  
  
-  
  
"Oh no." Dorian says, turning around to face the wall as soon as he looks at her. "No. No, no, no. Absolutely _not_. I don't think so. You can take that - that face and turn it right around and leave. The answer is _no_."  
  
"But I haven't even said anything, yet."  
  
" _Yet_." Dorian mimics, "Oh, I know you. You sneaky thing. I swore to myself, the last time you came up to me with that face, it would be the last time. _Never_ again, would I, Dorian Pavus of Minrathous fall for that sneaky face for yours. No. I _refuse_."  
  
"But Dorian."  
  
"Don't you _but Dorian_ me." Dorian folds his arms and glares at the wall. "It won't work, I tell you. I am going to stare at this wall until you leave."  
  
He hears her sigh, shuffle her feet.  
  
"But Dorian." She repeats. "I _need_ you."  
  
Dorian closes his eyes and turns around, eyes still closed, because he has a point to make, here. And that was a very, _very_ low blow.  
  
"The last time you came up to me with that face, you wanted me to a damned mire, Lavellan. A _mire_. With undead. A mire full of undead that had, previously, put you down for almost two weeks because you swallowed bog water. Bog water that was filled with - with undead. _Whatever_."  
  
"And it went very well." Lavellan says.  
  
 _"It went very well_ ," Dorian mutters, "It _went_. It went south. So incredibly south."  
  
Lavellan fidgets some more. "Well. If it means anything to you, I'm not here to ask you to come to the bogs with me."  
  
"Oh thank the _Maker_."  
  
"I'm here to ask you if you'll come with me to the Storm Coast." She says, "With Bull. We're going to try and find a dragon. Or dark spawn. Whichever we come upon first, I suppose."  
  
Dorian opens his eyes out of shock and she gives him the look. And because he is a fool who opened his eyes he sees the look and there is absolutely nothing anyone can do once they see that face.  
  
Dorian takes in a deep breath and says, "I _despise_ you with everything I am, you manipulative woman."  
  
Lavellan just keeps looking at him.  
  
"I'll go with you to the coast with that damned ox." Dorian grinds out, "But this is the last time, I swear. The absolute last time you will get me to do anything with that look and  your little I need you. Which was a very nasty blow."  
  
"But I do need you." She says, beaming at him. "You're my best friend."  
  
"You play dirty." Dorian sighs, "Alright, I'll go get my things. When do we go?"  
  
"Ten minutes." She replies, turning around to skip towards Haven's entrance - and he can see that damned elf smirking at him from across the way, as if he's immune to the girl's manipulative charms, which he isn't, he folds like paper -  as Dorian gapes after her. 'See you at the gates!"


	86. Chapter 86

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don't like Dorian." She says, hands on her hips when he calls for her to enter. "Why don't you like Dorian?"

"You need to come with me right _now_!" Dorian yells, flinging the door to the rotunda open, "They're going to kill her!"  
  
Solas thinks that it says volumes about how attached he's become to his da'len, his student - the first girl to carry his mark in centuries - that he doesn't question anything. He just drops his paint and moves. "Where?"  
  
Dorian rushes him to the top of one of the battlements - "She and a group of Dalish are fighting." Dorian explains, "And it looks to be very heated and very dangerous. You need to break them up."  
  
Solas feels his heart clench - and thinks about her, Lavellan, being hurt by the people she calls _hers_ , and he fears for her. It always hurts when it comes from where you least expect it. Will she be alright? Shaken? Broken? Will her will come through? How will they help her if this is so? _Da'len._  
  
They come upon a writhing mass of chirping, squeaking, hissing, crowing, and snarling elves. Young ones, Solas recognizes many from whenever Lavellan gathers a group to play her games with. They're all tangled together, punching, kicking, pulling, yelping and chanting and clicking at each other as they tangle. A few elves off to the side are jeering, waving and stomping their feet, clapping their hands in a recognizable rhythm as they chant.  
  
Solas sighs and they all freeze - one of them yelling - " _Scatter_!" another yelling, "Hahren!" before all of them are, much to Solas' amusement and Dorian's bafflement, flinging themselves in every direction and disappearing like leaves in the wind. They flee in every direction like cats or mice, leaving Lavellan left with a young man in headlock.  
  
She stares at him with wide eyes. " _Hahren_!"  
  
Solas raises a pointed eyebrow at the elf she still has trapped under her arm. She flushes pink and lets go, hands behind her back as the young elf looks between her and him, before slipping over the side of the wall. She looks forlorn.  
  
He turns to Dorian. "There is no need for alarm. They were just playing."  
  
Dorian gapes at him, "You call that _playing_? They were ripping each other to pieces."  
  
"The Dalish play rough." Solas replies, can't help the smile that threatens to slip over his face - it is one of the few things he approves of the Dalish, if only because it reminds him of the days when he and his fellows weren't too dignified for play. June was a bitter loser. "Real Dalish fights are one on one and completely silent. _Then_ is when you'll need to worry."  
  
"You _tattled_." Lavellan whines, scuffing her foot. "Dorian, now none of the others will play with me for ages. And I just had them convinced that you were one of the _good_ shems. Now I have to start all over! At the rate this is going I'll never be able to get you into our games!"  
  
Dorian just stares at her, mouth opening and closing before he closes his eyes and puts his hands up, shaking his head and turning around, walking back towards the main castle and muttering under his breath.  
  
Solas turns to Lavellan who has the presence of mind to at least look a little embarrassed.  
  
"You and the others are going to scare the humans." Solas says, causing her to duck her head. "What if it was Cassandra, or perhaps Vivienne who saw that instead of Dorian? They would have tried to break it up immediately, and most likely would have been somewhat rough in the process. You and your friends could have been hurt for _real_."  
  
Lavellan is sporting a faintly purple bruise on the side of her jaw and a thin red scratch on her temple. He is certain it would have been worse if someone came in to break it up.  
  
"We were just playing _wolf-fox-halla-bear._ " She mumbles, "It wasn't anything serious. I mean - we didn't even include the _halla_ part of the wolf-fox-halla-bear!"  
  
 _"Da'len_."  
  
"Alright, fine. We won't play it anymore." She says, crossing her arms. "Where shems can catch us."  
  
It's as good as he's going to get and he's not actually interested in pressing for more. He, after all, doesn't care about her games as long as she isn't actually getting hurt.  
  
"One last thing." He says, holding up his finger before she can try to escape. She stares, forlorn at his hand.  
  
"Yes, hahren?"  
  
"If you excluded the halla out of wolf-fox-halla-bear, which were you?"  
  
She perks up, grinning wide. " _Wolf_."  
  
He really shouldn't feel so pleased.  
  
"And," She tags on, preening when he fails to hide his amusement, "We were winning."  
-  
  
"You don't like Dorian." She says, hands on her hips when he calls for her to enter. "Why don't you like Dorian?"  
  
"Aside from the fact that he sees nothing wrong with slavery?" Solas raises an eyebrow, gesturing for her to close the door before she lets the warm air out. She huffs, closing the door and perching on the stool next to the window. Solas closes his eyes and resumes his meditation. It isn't so much about silence as it is about sorting his thoughts out. Easily done, with or without Lavellan's distractions. "Ignoring that he looks down on everyone for not being Tevinter as barbaric and backwards, often attributes that which came from Elvhenan to his own, and makes excuses for that which can have none? Nothing. He's quick of wit and capable in a fight. And a much better conversant partner that Madame Vivienne."  
  
"You don't like _her_ either." Lavellan huffs, drumming her fingers on the underside of the stool.  
  
"Have you _spoken_ to each of them?"  
  
"They have - issues." Lavellan answers, "But they're not bad people."  
  
"He would have you in chains."  
  
"No. He wouldn't. I mean - not _me_."  
  
"If he didn't know you he would."  
  
"I'm working on getting him to understand. But for now I'm tabling that discussion - that's a new phrase I learned today, by the way. _Tabling_. How odd, how they make verbs out of nouns. - until I know him better so I can argue better." She admits, "I'd appreciate it if my hahren got along with the only other mage here who doesn't want to put other mages in prison."  
  
Solas sighs, "I can promise civility but I cannot promise companionship."  
  
"How about amiability?"  
  
"We shall see." Solas says after a beat. "Though I do think you are quite amiable for all of Haven. He is growing fonder of you with every passing moment."  
  
"It's probably because I don't glare at him when I talk."  
  
"Most likely, yes."  
  
"Will you stop glaring at him when you talk?"  
  
"I do not _glare_ at him when I talk."  
  
"No, you're right - you look down your nose at him. Will you stop?"  
  
"When he stops being little and - "  
  
"Hahren. Please?"  
  
"We shall see. Press for no more. Accept that which is given. And tell me of these runes you found in the mire."  
  
-  
  
"She's a little _young_ for you, don't you think?" Dorian says and Solas looks back at him.  
  
"And she's a little _female_ for your tastes. Your point?"  
  
"I think you _know_ my point." Dorian says, arms crossed as he leans against the arch of the stairway up to the library. Solas is surprised, rarely anyone is in the library this early. Not even the Spymaster will be in her rookery for another half candle mark or so. "She is my friend. And she is young. And she is _lonely_. For all that she is surrounded in people, she's lonely. And I know exactly what kind of appeal there is in knowledge beyond your fingertips. So I'm _telling_ you. She's young."  
  
"I am _aware_ of how young she is." More than you think, so much more than you think, Tevinter. Even _you_ are young to me. "And I am telling _you_ , I have no interest in what you are implying."

Solas wishes he could be offended but he can't be. Even if Dorian doesn't know, he was not always like this. He had a reputation, once. In another time. In another age. "I am fond of her, this I do not deny. I think I am correct in saying quite a few of us are fond of her. I cannot speak for the others, but I can speak for myself. And I will tell you that my interest in her does not extend farther than what I can do to teach her and prepare her for what lies ahead, and what I can do to ease her mind when troubles arise. No more. No less."  
  
"I hoped as much." Dorian admits, "But you never know. The bonds between a teacher and student - they are. They are strong. And powerful things. Manipulated and changed by circumstance, by distance. Or the lack thereof."  
  
"I will ask you not to take your experiences and overlap them onto her and myself." Solas says, "And to have faith in her choices, and our ability to respect those choices. Granted, I understand your concern. She is very young. And while she is experienced in many things, her heart is open and she gives her affections freely." He will concede that without protest. "So it is up to us, those who are with her, to try and help inform her of her choices, and to give her as much as we are able to give her the clearest path possible."  
  
"You are always so annoyingly eloquent. Even at this hour." Dorian muses, "And here I hoped to catch you a little off guard."  
  
"I am never off guard." Solas replies, "Considering how many times you've attempted to hit me in the head with paper projectiles, I consider this a good thing."  
  
Dorian rolls his eyes, "Oh you sound _bitter_ , but admit it, I brighten up your day. I am a veritable ray of sunshine." He waves a hand, pushing off of the stone to go upstairs, "Well, good talk, Solas. As always you have shown yourself to be ridiculously well put together and unreasonably reasonable. Good day to you."


	87. Chapter 87

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is this a naughty thing?"

He traces the little knobs of her spine, the small bumps that protrude like the knobs of a calf's horns out of her small back. Her skin is scarred and soft, traced with lines of her elven markings and the lines of battle. She is so small, and there is so much of her to fit inside such a small strip of skin and cutting of bone. Sometimes it feels like if he were to take all that she is, and ball her up he could fit her in his palm. And somehow all that skin and bone is big enough for magic, the Fade, all of them, and more. She holds so much inside of her small little self.  
  
She yawns, tiny and small and wet as she makes idle splashes in the water.  
  
His hand could swallow half her back without trying.  
  
"Ready to sleep, boss?"  
  
"No." She says, "M'not tired."  
  
"Course you aren't."  
  
He thinks of Tama. What would you make of this bas, Tama? Under the Qun, he knows she wouldn't make it. It's not even a matter of strength or power. She has that in _spades_. It's not about endurance or intelligence, either. She's sharp enough to make it, she could be Ben-Hassrath if she wanted. She's clever enough. Tricky enough.

But she would not choose it. And there, is the problem. She  _chooses_.  
  
Her mind wouldn't bend. It wouldn't break. It wouldn't budge. The Qun would never have her. She would question and she would slip through loopholes like water and air, she would find all the cracks. She would question and when she would get no answers she would make her own. She would break the Qun's crack's open if they didn't get to her first.  
  
If they tried to twist her mind, they would fail. If they tried to rewrite her pages, she would write them again, anew. They would have to terminate her. And they would try.  
  
They could _try_.  
  
His mind repeats, the Qun will not have her.  
  
He presses his thumb to the top notch of her spine, watches her squirm a bit.  
  
"Kadan." He says, as he remembers his Tama saying to him, once, long ago. As he remembers saying to those he has long lost. As he remembers being called by those who are gone.  
  
"Lethallin." She replies, flicking droplets over water to watch the ripples.  
  
 _The Qun will not have her._  
  
-  
  
"You." Morrigan hisses, finishing her climb to Leliana's rookery. " _You_ did this."  
  
"Did what?" Leliana replies, smiling beatifically. "Good afternoon, Morrigan. So good to see you, you're looking murderous and suspicious as usual."  
  
"You brought _him_ to Skyhold." Morrigan hisses, "And you put him together with the Inquisitor. And you didn't warn me."  
  
"I ddin't realize I was supposed to." Leliana says, arms crossing as she raises an eyebrow. "Why? Whatever is the matter, Morrigan? You look flustered."  
  
"You know _exactly_ what is wrong." Leliana smiles. "Ugh. You haven't changed at all. Ten years and still you play your petty _games_."  
  
"It's important to cherish the small moments in life." Leliana hums, leaning her hip against a table. "The small moments, like watching Alistair and Lavellan talk at a few dozen words a second at each other while wildly gesticulating. It's such a pity that I couldn't find Shale and that Zevran couldn't make it in time - "  
  
"You invited that _elf_?"  
  
" - and Surana is so busy - "  
  
"Have you been attempting an entire reunion behind my back?"  
  
" - it would have been just amazing to watch. They would make such fantastic friends, don't you agree?"  
  
"They would get along like this castle on fire." Morrigan grinds out. "You couldn't have warned me of this - this meeting?"  
  
"I could have." Leliana laughs, "But then I wouldn't have gotten to see your face. You went so pale and then so red. I don't think I've ever seen you look so red in my life!"  
  
"Oh, shut it." Morrigan groans, kicking a chair out and collapsing into it. "Just throw those two at the magister, I'm sure they'll talk him to defeat or suicide." Morrigan wraps her long fingers around the neck of the wine bottle Leliana's been keeping for this very occasion, "You even remembered my favorite vintage."  
  
"I like to annoy and occasionally ruffle your feathers, Morrigan. I don't want you on a _rampage_." Leliana replies. "That being said, it's nice to see old friends again, no?"  
  
"Only from a distance and when they cannot see you in return." Morrigan drawls, "But yes. Tis nice, to - _sometimes_ , after a few years - see old faces and what has become of them." Morrigan pauses as she pours out the glasses. "It is - it is a shame that she could not be here with us. She misses him, still."  
  
"They _love_ each other, still." Leliana replies, "After all these years. Just as she loves the rest of us. That being said, I too, wish she could be here. I often wonder who's with her now, who watches her back. I'd feel better if it was one of us."  
  
"There's the elf." Morrigan muses.  
  
"Yes. There's always Zevran."  
  
"And the dog." Morrigan hums, "And one thinks about it, the dog is much better a guard than Alistair."  
  
-  
  
Lavellan's chin rests on Blackwall's shoulder as she dangles off his back.  
  
"Enjoying yourself?" Varric asks as Blackwall continues to carefully carve - whatever it's going to be. Varric doesn't know shit about woodworking beyond bolts and arrows, so he's not going to be figuring out what this thing is anytime soon.  
  
"Yes." She replies, and Varric wonders how long she's been holding on and how long it took her to train Blackwall to not say anything about it. "Good morning Varric. You don't usually come to the stables, do you need a pony?"  
  
"No." Varric replies, "Just thought I'd pop in and see how you're doing. You holding up alright, big guy?"  
  
"I might be getting old." Blackwall replies, "But at least this one doesn't weight that much. I can hold her up, at least. Fairly sure the shield weighs more."  
  
Varric snorts. Lavellan hums.  
  
"You're not getting old, Blackwall." She says, "You look nicely middle aged. I mean, maybe if you slept more you'd lose those bags under your eyes but otherwise I think you look alright."  
  
"You could also not sleep in a barn." Varric tacks on, "Real beds do wonders, I hear."  
  
"That's right, so you should trade with me. I worry for you."  
  
"Do you?" Blackwall replies, amused, "Is that why you've been hanging around recently?"  
  
She giggles, dropping down and moving around so she can crouch next to the worktable, fingers and chin resting on the edges as she watches. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Does it really matter?"  
  
"So, since I've seen how you're doing. I've come to ask for something of a favor." Lavellan cocks her head in his direction. "From both of you."  
  
That gives Blackwall and Lavellan pause and they both turn to look at him.  
  
"A friend is coming." Varric says, "And I'm going to need to make space. They have a dog. And I was hoping I could keep the dog here where he could blend in, rather than having him run around Skyhold."  
  
Lavellan beams, " _Dog_!"  
  
Blackwall hums, eyes narrowing. "Why do you need to make a _dog_ blend in?"  
  
"Because this dog is kind of infamous and I'd rather keep this visit under wraps." Blackwall raises an eyebrow, mouthing - _the Champion?_ \- while Lavellan claps her hands, whispering " _dog_!" to herself. Varric nods. Blackwall shakes his head.  
  
"Alright, I'll make arrangements. Good luck, dwarf. I'll drink in your name when the Seeker gets her hands on you."  
  
"Why would you drink in Varric's name?" Lavellan asks, eyes flicking between them, frowning. "Why is Cassandra putting hands on Varric?"  
  
"You'll see." Blackwall replies. "Probably hear it, too."  
  
"Is this a naughty thing?"


	88. Chapter 88

“I think I’m an alright swimmer, but if I fall I don’t think I’m coming back up.” Lavellan says, sounding remarkably calm about the whole thing as Sera frantically attempts to pull her back up.

“We are never coming here again.” Sera yells over the wind and thunder, fingers locked around Lavellan’s wrist. “Fucking – you’re so wet. I’m so wet. And not in the good way.”

“There’s a good way?”

“We don’t have time for your everything!” Sera screams, “I’m _slipping_. Stupid _rocks_. Stupid _waves_. Stupid _you_ for walking near the edge of a cliff. Stupid _me_ for thinking the Inquisition would be a cool thing to join. _Stupid_.”

“You’re not stupid.” Lavellan says, trying to grab at the sheer cliff face with her other hand and finding no handholds. “I think you’re really clever, Sera.”

“Not _helping_. Where the hell is that giant wall when you need him?”

“Probably fishing Dorian out of the water.” Lavellan hums, swaying a bit.

“Can you _not move_?” Sera says, “Oh god, oh Maker. Cassandra is going to kill me. I dropped the Herald of Andraste over a cliff into the ocean. Flames. Flames. Shit. Fuck. Tits. Shit.”

“Such foul language.” Lavellan clicks her tongue and Sera is going to _cry_ this situation is so _stupid_ and _ridiculous_. It’s not something she can solve with a bow and arrow and it’s not something she could’ve ever planned for because _who even_ does this kind of thing? No one. Except this _weird person right here_.

“I changed my mind!” Sera yells, “I don’t like you anymore. You’re not one of the cool elves.”

Sera startles when she feels someone lean over her, and then relaxes when a large gray arm enters her field of vision and curls around Lavellan’s arm, pulling her up with a soft grunt.

“About fucking _time_.” Sera snaps, getting up and grimacing at the giant wet spot all down the front of her tunic. “What took you?”

“Tevinter got stuck.” Bull grunts, “And this hill is really steep and the soil isn’t firm. Had to meander around the side. Took the long way up.”

“Where _is_ Dorian?” Lavellan asks, still dangling from Bull’s arm, looking around.

“Still coming up. Told me to go on ahead.” Bull turns, walking away from the edge before setting her down. “Got worried about you two. Good thing, too, huh? Were you walking near the edge or what? Keep telling you not, too, boss. Ground ain’t too solid here. Crumbles and slides around like shit.”

“Alright.” Lavellan says, “I won’t anymore.”

“Oh sure, when _he_ says it you pay attention.” Sera mutters, collecting her dropped bow and inspecting it for damage. “When I say it you just say _don’t worry Sera, you’re such a worry wart_.”

“You realize she doesn’t actually mean it.” Bull says as Lavellan goes off to find Dorian. “The second she’s out of sight she’s going to go – “

They hear a pair of loud yelps and the sound of falling -

Sera and Bull move to look down the slope and see Dorian and Lavellan tangled at the bottom.

“I feel old being around her.” Sera says.

Bull smacks her on the back. “Join the club.”

-

“Have you ever considered piercing anything?” Sera asks, once and then pauses. “Never mind. You don’t seem the type.”

“I have ear holes.” Lavellan says, “I just don’t use them that much.”

“Surprised they didn’t close.” Sera hums. “You just don’t seem the type, you know.”

“You realize,” Lavellan says, slowly as she raises an eyebrow, “My entire body is covered in tattoos.”

Sera blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right. Wait. Your _entire_ body?”

Lavellan nods.

Sera winces.

“I don’t know how you forget that. I mean. My face.” Lavellan gestures. “My face.”

“To be fair the rest of you is covered up  most of the time.” Sera says, “I forget. Whatever. Anyway. You ever consider getting anything else pierced?”

Lavellan hums, shrugs. “I had friends who got their lips and noses pierced. My mother’s eyebrow is pierced. But no, I didn’t want anymore. You?”

“Nah. Not my thing.” Sera replies, “Needles? Through my skin? Unless it’s coming back out and healing up nice, I don’t think it’s for me. Looks nice, though.”

Sera rolls an apple between her hands, “Hey – you think anyone _else_ ever got something pierced? Or a tattoo?”

Lavellan blinks, opens her mouth - “I’m not supposed to say.”

“Wait – what does that mean?”

“It means I know, but I’m not supposed to say because I was told not to.” Lavellan says, “It’s a secret. I’m not allowed to help guess or find out, either.”

“Wait – _who_ told you? Is it embarrassing? Is it somewhere naughty? Is it _something_ naughty?” Sera leans forward and Lavellan works the window open - “Oh, come on. Don’t go!”

Sera grabs onto the back of Lavellan’s tunic as she attempts to escape via window - “You can’t just tell me that and _go_!”

-

“I am attempting to find inner calm.” Lavellan says when Varric finds her staring into a bowl of water, balanced on top of one of the crumbling walls of Skyhold. “I mean. I already have inner calm but Dorian said I should go find more of it. I don’t think that’s how it works, but he looked very flustered so I didn’t say anything. That’s what friends do, sometimes. They let their friends think the wrong thing. At least, that’s what someone else has led me to believe. _I_ , myself, could be wrong.”

“How about working on finding more of that inner calm away from the edge of a sheer drop?” Varric suggests, “I’m not going to lie, Poppy. It’d be more for my _own_ inner calm’s sake than anything. I don’t trust those walls.”

Lavellan hops off the wall, and a few seconds later Varric winces as the parts she was sitting on crumble and topple over into the valley below.

Lavellan doesn’t look too perturbed by the fact that she could have fallen to her long and icy death, but continues to stare into the bowl of water.

“Don’t tell Dorian that I already have an inner calm.” Lavellan says after a few more moments pass of staring into water, “I feel like he would be terribly conflicted about it. And he might try to use it against me. I’m not sure. In any event please don’t let anyone antagonize him today. He’s having a very trying time.”

“Lucky he has a friend like you, then.” Varric says, “I came looking for you because another friend of ours was looking for you. Come on, Blackwall wants your help in the stables.”

“He does?” Lavellan perks up, “Really?”

“Yes, really. I think he worries if you’re out of sight too long. We all worry, actually. I mean. Whenever no one sees you, you tend to get up to some pretty crazy shit, Poppy.” Varric says, offering her arm which she takes as they make their way through the stone to the safer areas of Skyhold. “Only you. I swear. You and maybe Hawke. Though I think your crazy shit tends to be a lot more mystical in nature than Hawke’s weird shit.”

 


	89. Chapter 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "With all due respect, sir." Rylen says, "I'm glad I'm not you."

"Have you ever considered how much I love you?" Dorian muses as Lavellan glides out with him onto the dance floor.  
  
"A lot, but not in that way?" She replies, blinking at him and making a marvelous attempt at not making cow eyes in the general direction of the finger foods.  
  
"Ridiculous, _really_." Dorian sighs, "You know, normally the _man_ leads in these dances. Or the one wearing the trousers."  
  
"The man part is the easy part though. And we're _both_ wearing trousers." Lavellan frowns, "Also, I can't do the lady part. It's too hard."  
  
Dorian snorts, "Taking the lead on the Orlesian dance floor with a Tevinter mage, love? _Really_? I don't know of they hate you or love you, judging by the looks they're sending us. Or maybe they're jealous of me. Or you. Or _both_ of us, hm, _there's_ a thought. So, should I ask what brought this on?"  
  
"I was dancing with Varric on the balcony." Lavellan says, and Dorian waits because no matter how off-topic something seems, or how much of a non-sequitur anything appears, it is always related to the topic at hand, in some distant fashion. It's just a matter of waiting for her to get there. "And he said something along the lines of not letting all my hard work go to waste."  
  
"You did work very hard. Even though we teased you about it a lot." Dorian points out, Maker knows that if he were in her position he'd have thrown a fit by now. All things considered, she took her lessons with remarkable grace and patience. Even the fusses she chose to kick up weren't all too hard to deal with. Dorian doesn't know how he did it, but somehow he's found a friend in a woman with the patience and temper of a thousand and one flower petals. "We are all so very, very proud, you know. A few months ago, you didn't even know there were more than one type of fork."  
  
"I _know_ I worked hard." Lavellan dips her chin, her little hand squeezing his. "But _you_ worked hard, too."  
  
Dorian blinks and almost stumbles as she spins him. When they're face to face again Lavellan draws him improperly close and darts up to peck his cheek.  
  
"Well," Dorian says as soon as the little wave of whispers and gasps fades out, "Now I know there's at least _three_ people who are jealous of me right this very moment."  
  
"There are _always_ at least three people jealous of you at any given moment. You said so when we met." Lavellan laughs. Dorian smiles down at her. "Anyway. You all worked so hard to bring me here, Dorian. Even if I wasn't that cooperative. And Varric was right. I shouldn't let that work go to waste."  
  
"Are you going to dance with each and every one of us?" Dorian raises his eyebrows at her and her fingers tap against his waist.  
  
"Well. I didn't get you the first dance, but second isn't so bad, right?"  
  
"Just this once I think I'll accept that." Dorian laughs, and to the Void with propriety and what anyone else thinks - he switches roles with her and swoops her up, kissing her on the cheek. "I do _love_ you. So very much."  
  
She laughs and Leliana or Josephine is probably going to kill them both, or at least him - they still need her - and wraps her arms around his neck, smooth skin against his cheek as she hugs him, still in the air.  
  
" _Ridiculous_ ," She laughs into his ear, "Really."  
  
-  
  
"I need to borrow you." Solas says and Cassandra raises her eyebrows. It's rare to find Solas in the lower courtyard, he tends to avoid the training soldiers.  
  
"What for?" The last time she was borrowed by one of the mages, she ended up attending to Vivienne at a tea party for _four_ hours. Four hours of little cakes and small talk and unsubtle manipulations. She doubts Solas would do the same, but she is still somewhat wary.  
  
"The Inquisitor is asking questions." Solas says.  
  
"And that is new? Or has she finally come across something you do not know?" Perhaps his patience has finally worn thin.  
  
Solas shakes his head, "No. I am - I find that I am somewhat unfit to answer her."  
  
"Unfit?" If possible, Cassandra's eyebrows would be raising higher. "How so?"  
  
Solas closes his eyes and if she didn't know better she'd say he was flushed.  
  
"She is - " He waves his hand, "Say yes. I refuse to ask Sera or Vivienne to do this. Josephine is currently busy and I believe she would trust you and your answers."  
  
Cassandra narrows her eyes.  
  
"It is a question that should be directed at a woman, not a _male_ _hahren_." He sounds a little strained. " _Please_ , Cassandra."  
  
It's not like she can say  no, _now_.  
  
"Lead the way, Solas." She sighs, and he doesn't quite slump, but his shoulders seem a little less tense than they were a moment before.  
  
"Thank you, Cassandra." He offers her one of his rare, non-Lavellan related smiles. "I am ever grateful."  
  
-  
  
"May I ask what you are doing?" Solas puts his hand out and steadies the stack of books in her arms as she slowly makes her way down the stairs.  
  
"I am taking these to the stable."  
  
Solas casts a quick glance upwards, "Do not let Dorian hear you say that. He might expire on the spot."  
  
Lavellan snorts a laugh.  
  
"What might you be doing bringing books to the stable?"  
  
"I am trying to find a name." She says, "For the unicorn and the dracolisk."  
  
"And the hart?"  
  
Lavellan leans around the book stack to peer at him, "No. Of course not the hart. He already _has_ a name, he just hasn't _told_ me yet."  
  
"Of course." Solas blinks, nodding his head in acquiescence. "Will he be telling you that name anytime soon?"  
  
Lavellan hums, "Maybe? I don't know. I think he likes it when I call him _vhenan_."  
  
Solas feels his lips twitch upwards before he takes half the stack, "I shall help you. Are these books all the ones with names you think would fit the other two?"  
  
"Yes." She says, "I've already gone through all the Dalish names I know. But maybe since the unicorn and dracolisk don't know any Dalish they don't like them? I was thinking of bringing the Iron Bull with me to try some Qunari titles - they don't have names in the Qun, you see? - but then I thought that maybe they're more used to shem names because here are so many shems and not so many Qunari or Dalish. So I picked out a bunch of books with lots of shems in them and I'm going to read the names out until I find one they like."  
  
"Logical reasoning." Solas concedes, "And a good way to practice your own reading skills."  
  
Lavellan hums with pleasure. The girl is always happy to be praised, and her joy radiates from her like a warm fire.  
  
"One more question." Solas says as they blink into the sunlight, the sounds of Skyhold echoing up at them from below. "Did you tell anyone where you were taking these books?"  
  
"You."  
  
"Anyone else?"  
  
"No."  
  
Solas sighs and makes a mental note to make a list of all the books she's taken and hand them to Dorian before anyone thinks there is a thief about Skyhold.  
  
"I thought as much."  
  
-  
  
"The Inquisitor is just making cat noises around Skyhold." Cullen says, "She's done stranger things, you have to admit. No cause for any true alarm."  
  
Vivienne just looks at him.  
  
"I'll worry when this - _meowing_ causes demons or fire to rain down from the sky." Cullen insists. "Besides, Cole is with her."  
  
She raises an eyebrow. "You are entrusting our safety to that demon?"  
  
"Cole isn't a demon." Even with Cullen's dulled senses he can tell that. He doesn't feel like any demon he's encountered before. "And _yes_ , I am. Considering how many times he's had a knife drawn next to her and hasn't used it, I think this trust is fairy well earned."  
  
Ignoring the fact that Cole looks at her like she's a miniature star come down from the sky, and that the boy has about the same degree of attention span as the Inquisitor does, he highly doubts that they're up to anything malicious. Two days ago, Cullen woke up to a ring of flowers around his bed, to which the two only replied that they were experimenting with ways to chase away nightmares. The thought warmed his heart but ultimately the attempt was unsuccessful, much to their disappointment (and his own).  
  
This morning Cullen woke up with a string of stones across the foot of his bed and he still doesn't know _how_ they keep getting in here without waking him up to set it all up. It would be one thing if it was just Cole, but apparently the Inquisitor has been doing it also and it makes Cullen wonder if he's getting old and losing his touch or if they're just that good.  
  
"Besides," Cullen tacks on when the woman makes it clear she isn't happy, "Dorian is looking into it already. You're a bit late if you're going to talk to me about this. Dorian's been investigating all morning."  
  
If there's anything that can drive her off, it's comparing her to the other mages of Skyhold. Dorian or Solas, especially. True to form, Vivienne sneers before letting out a soft " _hmph_ " and turning around to go back to her quarters.  
  
"Well then." She says, reminding Cullen of an offended queen with her tail stuck high and head thrown back, "Let it be said that I attempted to warn you. Should anything go wrong it is out of my hands and let it rest upon the rest of your shoulders."  
  
"I will bear it with grace should it come." Cullen assures her, sighing a little when the door swings shut.  
  
He waits a beat before turning back towards the assembled soldiers.  
  
"With all due respect, sir." Rylen says, "I'm glad I'm not you."  
  
That gets a few more nods and murmured agreements. Cullen snorts. "Rylen, I think it's safe to say that anyone would be glad they are not me. Where were we before she interrupted?"  
  
"The situation with water at the approach, ser."  
  
Cullen waves a hand for the corresponding scout to come forward and report, and makes a mental note to ask Lavellan about the meowing later, if the apparent answer doesn't come up on its own.


	90. Chapter 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawnstone. Sharp and beautiful, but so fucking, fucking brittle if you handle them wrong. Dawnstone and onyx. Dangerous shit. But the process is hard and frail.

“The boy.” She asks, as Dorian furiously warms her hands, muttering things she can’t understand under his breath as he calls fire underneath his skin. “What happened to the boy? The one with the Chancellor?”

Dorian blinks at her, “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him. For now let’s worry about how you almost got frost bite, yes? Andraste – at least you’ve finally gotten some boots on. Damn it, damn it, _damn it_.”

Lavellan feels a little guilty for making him so upset, but mostly she wonders what happened to the boy. If he’s alright. If he got taken care of.

Dorian uses fire and magic and the sheer force of his will to coax her fingers back into tingling awareness again, and then raises her hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“Take care of these for me, alright?” He says, and he looks so tired and she can feel the tingle of lyrium on her skin as his breath touches her. “These lovely little things have a lot of work to do in the days ahead.”

“I will.” She says, and takes his hands into her own, tingling, ones and kisses his fingers. “I will. Really.”

He smiles at her and there’s always a little something confused and sad and hurting in his face whenever he smiles at her and she doesn’t know, but she thinks she does. She doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t like to see that sad thing in his face. Someday she hopes that it will go away, that she’ll stop hurting him when he looks at her. Or that maybe someday he will tell her about it and take her out of her guesses. But for now she squeezes his hands in her own and goes to find the boy with the hat and soft voice.

She worries.

He looks so young. And he looked so thin and pale. He didn’t even have a coat.

Lavellan has a coat, even if she doesn’t always wear her shoes and gloves, she has a coat. It’s a nice coat and it smells like hay and grass and old leather and dogs and sunshine. It’s old and it had to be tailored to fit her and she sometimes wonders about who used to own it.

“Cullen?” She asks, nervous as she peers into a dark tent that she knows is Cullen’s. She doesn’t want to wake him if he’s asleep. No one’s been sleeping enough and it worries her.

Cullen doesn’t seem to ever sleep. Back at Haven – a pang, because there will never be a Haven, a back at Haven, because Haven is gone and it’s her fault – he was always awake when she got up and he was always still doing something when she went to sleep. Even when she snuck out at night she could hear movement in his tent, see a small flicker of a candle.

She’s heard Cassandra and Leliana talk about it, too. How he doesn’t sleep. They sounded worried. When those two are worried, Lavellan thinks that the rest of the world should worry too.

“Yes, Herald?” Cullen says, and he’s sitting on a cot, sheafs of papers in his hands and his hair is messy and his beard is really growing out. It makes him look very tired and a little mean and a lot angry. Even his voice is a little brittle, but he looks at her and she can tell that he’s trying to keep his temper. Cullen always tries very hard and Lavellan doesn’t always mean to make it worse but sometimes she does without knowing and she really needs to try harder.

“I’m sorry.” Lavellan says, and his face softens even though she hasn’t said what for yet. “I just – I don’t mean to interrupt. I was just looking for the boy. The one who was with the Chancellor. Have you seen him?”

Cullen frowns, expression going a little distant. “I’m sorry – I can’t seem to remember. I – what did he look like?”

Lavellan bites her cheek and wonders just how little sleep he’s been getting. The Commander doesn’t forget faces.

“Never mind.” She says, “Um. Please rest. I’ll go get you some soup, you look like you need it. But in the mean time please rest, I’ll be right back.”

She ducks out of his tent and sprints away, wondering. She’ll ask hahren, next. He doesn’t forget _anything_ , _ever_. He would know.

But in the mean time, soup.

(There are more people who need help here than the boy, she knows. And she’ll help them as she goes.)

-

Bull catches her in the middle of a nightmare once. Literally.

He’s making his way back to his quarters from checking in on his guys in the barracks when he sees a thin, pale streak run past him. Near silent. Bull starts running after the white shape on instinct, mind thinking about assassins and infiltrators – repercussions of disobeying the Qun – when the kid’s voice catches up to him.

The kid is sprinting along next to him but he doesn’t sound out of breath -

“Must save them. I can save them all. But first I have to run. Get to them. Run, run, run. It hurts but I run because if I don’t run like a halla, like wind and fire, they will die and this, too, is my fault. I have to get to them. I have to save them. Lives in my hands, long lost Haven, no where is safe, I will make it safe. I have to. For them. I will protect you even if I have to die to do it. I will die for them. A hundred times Yes. My loves, my _lethallin_ who are not elf-blooded. Yes. My people who chose me even though I did not always choose them. Yes. Dwarf, shem, Qunari. Yes. Them. Yes. I will die. _Yes.”_

Bull catches up to her as she’s clawing her way up a wall, in nothing but one of the flimsy white nightgowns that Josephine and Vivienne keep bringing in from Orlais in an attempt to civilize her, and her skin is pale and thin and marked up as she tries to scratch her way up a wall with nothing but her bare hands.

He knows she could actually do it, maybe if she was fully awake.

Careful, because if you wake a dreamer up too fast they can die – the shock of reality breaking their hearts as you break the dream – he puts both hands around her even though he really only maybe needs one arm to pick her up. And gently, because with his boss you always gotta be gentle even though it doesn’t always look like it. Got to be gentle with the humans. Gentler with the elves.

Dawnstone. Sharp and beautiful, but so fucking, fucking brittle if you handle them wrong. Dawnstone and onyx. Dangerous shit. But the process is hard and frail.

He picks her up, gentle, even as she clings to stone with her fingertips. She’s freezing and her ribs flutter underneath his hands.

Cole is quiet at his side for a moment.

“I love them. Yes. I need them. Yes. They are mine. Yes. They will die. Yes. This is the Nightmare. Yes. I am so afraid. Yes. It doesn’t matter. Yes. _I love them more than anything. Yes.”_

Bull glances down at Cole and Cole is looking directly at him.

“I will protect them. Yes.”

“And who are you reading, now?” Bull asks.

Cole tilts his head. “Yes.”

And then he disappears.

Bull tucks her into the cradle of his arms and goes to carry her back to – no. Probably not a good idea to put her in her room. Damn lucky she didn’t sleep walk right off a balcony.

The barracks. He’ll put her in next to Krem. Or Dalish. Grim, maybe. Those three are the best with dealing with dreams. They’ll keep her safe. And they’ll talk it out, or not, in the morning. Whatever she needs.

Yes.


	91. Chapter 91

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coins are pretty, at least.

Everything smells different and feels different and sounds different and it’s odd because among the shems _she_ is the one who is different, not them, even though they do everything _wrong_ and _strange_ and make everything complicated and difficult and a little foreign.

Lavellan watches from her corner as people drink and eat watery soup and chew on hard bread and not having enough food to go around, or even very good food is familiar at least. But all the songs are different and their walls are made of stone and wood and don’t _move_. Not _ever_. Which has always been strange because what do you do if you get attacked? You have to leave it behind and wouldn’t that make it easy for the predator to follow you if you leave a trail of stone and wood houses behind?

But then – she supposes it makes sense.

Shems don’t get chased by shems unless they’re mages and then they go alone. Lavellan picks at the wooden table with her finger. She guesses it’s alright for the shems to make houses like this because they don’t have to run because they’re busy chasing elves like her so that’s why her people live in aravels and canvas tents and quick-take-apart tents.

So she guesses she understands _that_. Even though it still feels weird to be blocked out from the rest of the world like this. She looks up and she can’t see light through the ceiling and she looks down and there’s no dirt or grass, not even trampled dirt or grass, it’s just wood and woodchips and thin little wood shavings that tickle her toes a little.

And the concept of coinage is so strange. Why trade for little gold and silver and copper pieces? That she understands – it’s not like they melt down the metal for weapons or tools.

If she needs something she has to exchange the coins for it. And it’s _weird_ because silver and copper should be worth more than gold. You can’t do much with gold. It’s just pretty. But it’s too soft for armor or weapons or anything useful. Lavellan frowns as she traces a constellation on the tabletop. You can do more with copper and steel but none of their coins are made of steel.

The coins are pretty, at least.

But she doesn’t really understand the point and why the names and faces on them change wherever she goes.

Shems are strange.

And their entire religion is odd, but she won’t say that out loud because it’s dangerous and she’s alone and she’s maybe a little young – but she has her marks and everything, she’s old enough to have children for the clan, too – but she knows how to protect her own neck at least.

Their Maker wanted a bonded woman for his own and then the husband sold the woman and there were slaves and they never say anything about Shartan, how come the Maker doesn’t like Shartan? How do they explain elves if the Maker doesn’t like elves?

She doesn’t understand why they can’t all just get along. Maybe the shems have a Maker above the clouds, but somewhere else Mythal and Elgar’nan and the others made everything else.

 _Maybe_ , a small voice inside her head whispers, _maybe when the dread wolf sealed all of them away he changed his face and made shems and called himself the Maker_. _Maybe when the dread wolf went away after sealing the gods a spirit rose and filled the space. Maybe the shems stole their Maker from  us, too._

She won’t say that. She won’t ever even suggest she thinks that.

Overall shemlens are strange. But not _bad_. She’s learning that. They’re not bad, not all of them. Though some of them don’t like her and keep trying to convert her, or just glare at her. They might be good shems.

There are some who come talk to her and ask her how she is and they ask if her hand hurts and if she’s eaten enough, if she’s cold and if her lodgings are alright. Those are good shems.

And then there’s Josephine and Leliana and Cassandra and Cullen who always make time for her when she has questions and they talk to her like they talk to everyone else and they are the really, really good shems, the ones that make being so far from her people hurt less.

They’re different and strange. But so is she and she thinks that maybe she can learn to make this work, maker herself work.

-

“I’m not crying, _you’re_ crying.” Cole says as Lavellan dabs at his face. “Oh, I _am_ crying. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Thank you for crying, Cole.” Lavellan says, mouth wobbling as she wipes his face. “Thank you for crying with me.”

Cole fidgets, blinking rapidly and sniffing. “I didn’t know I could cry.”

“Then we have learned something new out of this – this entire _mess_.” She says, hands shaking as she wipes her own face.

“It isn’t your fault.” Cole says. “I know it hurts. I feel it hurts.”

“I’m sorry you feel all that hurt – I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“I didn’t want to be here.” Cole says, slowly, carefully linking his fingers together. “But you needed me. And then when I got here I realized how many people needed me and didn’t know it and I realized I needed to be here for you and for them because I could help. And everyone else feels that way too. They wanted to be here because they needed to help each other and you. For you they say yes, for you they march. But it isn’t just you. It’s them, too. It’s all of us. Moving forward together, because someone else is behind us and we want to keep that person behind us safe.”

“So many people died.” She closes her eyes, and whispers, so quiet, so very, very quiet like if she says it soft, it would not be real, just a maybe. If she says it soft, maybe it isn’t real. But it is real and she knows. “It’s my fault. The Wardens are broken.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Cole says, carefully taking her knotted hands and tangling his own with hers. Easing the indentations on her palms, take his palms instead. “They made choices. You made choices. But you can’t take their choices as your own. That isn’t how it works. If you’d – if you’d like, I could – forget?”

She shakes her head, “I don’t want to forget. I wish it’d never happened at all.”

“I can’t do that.” Cole says. He’s not strong enough to do that.

Once, Pride, could. Maybe.

But Compassion cannot.

“I can. I can hold your hand some more. If you’d like. Or I could find Dorian. Or Solas.” Cole says, nervous because he’s still learning what to do when they do not want to forget, and still learning how to make the hurt go away when it can’t be fixed with little things. When people remember. She remembers him always and that makes him feel better when he isn’t sure about something because she’s so sure about him.

“Please.” She hiccups, squeezing his hands tight enough to feel. “Please.”

“Alright.” Cole says. “Alright.”

It is not alright, not yet. But he can feel the hurt begin to stitch together.


	92. Chapter 92

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes.” Solas says. “You may, of course, speak to me as you will. But in public spaces, it is probably best if you were to speak like one of them.”

“You aren’t from a clan.” She says, perched on the snow covered wall by the stairs, head tilted.

“No.” Solas replies, wary as she rocks a little on her stone perch. She was polite enough when she was in chains, but that was when her life depended on it. Now she walks relatively free and out of danger from her mark, and she is of too much value for the humans to attack her outright like this. Though it would be somewhat interesting if they were to try.

He has yet to see her _fight_.

Fighting demons is not the same as fighting mortal things.

She blinks at him and there is always something in the Dalish – their eyes, or maybe their chins and the stubborn part of their lip – that always makes Solas feel a little tired. A little awed and a little angry. Mostly tired. Weary and world-sick for a time that is not this one. For a time that’s had its flesh stripped clean and its bones buried in the dust.

“But you sometimes have a Dalish accent.” She says, small dip between her eyebrows as she leans – as if she could cross the space between them by leaning – and frowns. “And you don’t cast magic like the shems from the Circles do. Your spells taste Dalish.”

Her spells taste more human than elven to him. Quick and sharp, potent, blatant.

They lack the subtlety and range of the time before.

“Sometimes, yes.” Solas replies, “But I am not from any clan. I am, as yours would say, a _flat-ear_.”

Lavellan frowns, nose wrinkling as she shifts her weight, toes curling around the edges of stone through snow.

“So you don’t believe?” Her voice comes out smaller, hesitant.

“In?”

“The Gods.” She says, “You don’t believe?”

“I do. In a manner of speaking.” Solas concedes to her. “I am not Andrastian.”

She hums, looking into him for a long and quiet time. Then she smiles and stands up.

“Then you are a hahren.” She declares before bowing, left foot swinging around in a small circle to rest perpendicular to her right as she shapes _Elgar’nan_ with her hands. “Please watch over me, hahren. I am not world wise and I seek your guidance.”

It has been a very long time since someone has formally requested his guidance as hahren in such a way. He didn’t even realize that the Dalish still practiced this.

Though – he has no way of knowing that, he just _assumed_ -

Solas dips his head, and shapes _Ghilan’ain_ with his own hands.

“I am flattered. My first words of guidance to you, then, would be this – be cautious of how you act and speak around shemlens. To flaunt your otherness as you do now is dangerous. They want you tame, teeth blunt. Allow them to think it so. Do not let them see the wolf in you or they will gut you like a hare.”

Lavellan looks up at him with large pupils and hangs on his every word as if he was not the one who hung their people and left them to rot in the shemlen sun.

“Many thanks.” She says, obedient and so very trusting as she jumps off the stone and shakes the shape of gods from her hands. He listens as her voice changes, slowly switches. Impressive. “Does this sound better?”

“Did you learn that just now?” Solas asks.

“It’s hard.” She says, slow, careful. Her voice lowers and lengthens as she sounds out her words, somehow bare and naked without her Dalish accent. “Listening to you helps. Is this acceptable?”

“Yes.” Solas says. “You may, of course, speak to me as you will. But in public spaces, it is probably best if you were to speak like one of them.”

She nods, solemn and young and pliant. Waiting.

“That is all for now.” He says and she smiles, a quick thing – and he only sees the slightest moment of hesitation where she wants to bow to her elder before she darts off in the direction of the gates.

-

Lavellan is curled around the small little mabari pups that’ve imprinted on her, near the back corner of her stag’s stall. Blackwall is concerned with how long she’s been there and if she’s getting better or not.

Lass hasn’t been sleeping, that he knows. He also knows that she’s eating even worse than usual. If before she would glut herself at one meal and pick for the rest of the day, or even eat a little every hour, now she’s barely eating at all.

She lies in back with the puppies, half buried underneath hay. She feeds and waters and grooms her mount and mucks out her stag’s stall. She goes to change her clothes every so often, and he assumes she must bathe or at least wash her face while she’s at it. She stops by the pub once in a while and goes to the War Room when she’s needed without being told.

Aside from that she doesn’t do anything else she normally does and she hasn’t been talking much either.

It’s not her contemplative silence, her at peace silence. It’s not the silence she has when she feels like she has nothing that needs to be said and is contemplating the growing of grass or the passing of clouds.

This is a tense silence. Heavy with things she either wants to say and can’t, or things she doesn’t want to say but can.

Lavellan is not a girl made for secrecy. She’s transparent in her own strange way. Her secrets are never so agitated. They settle at the bottom of her, leaving the rest of her clear and undisturbed. Like a pool. But she’s all kicked up, now, murky and muddy.

He won’t pry. He’s got secrets that she doesn’t know about, that he hopes she’ll never know about. He doesn’t have a right to pry.

But he can be concerned.

What he can do is carry her to a proper bed at night and convince her to eat a little apple or maybe a bit of bread once in a while. And if he feels like pushing his luck, sometimes he can get her outside, talking to someone else for a few minutes.

S’not healthy for her to be cooped up all day. Only him and Dennet and animals for company.

“You’ll be alright, girl.” He says, feels her hands curled up on his shoulders as he carries her to Bull’s. Dalish and Skinner’ll take good care of her. Maybe she’ll even sleep a little before she ends up back at the stables. “You’re too strong to be anything but. Too many people love you for you to be anything else.”


	93. Chapter 93

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bare, I cast the sacred magic of Ghilan’ain. She, the changer of shapes. She the changer of flesh. She who’s craft passes on to us through our blood.

“The shems are strange.” Lavellan whispers to him, dark eyes peering at him over the edge of the cot as she crouches on the floor. Solas hums and wonders if it would be a terribly foolish thing of him to do to just go back to sleep. “They _kiss_ each other.”

She sounds appropriately scandalized by this.

“Josephine went all weird when I tried to hug her and I think Cullen near about thought I was about to kill him.” Lavellan continues. “But I saw Leliana kiss Cullen on the cheek and he only blushed a little and I see shems touching their mouths to everything.”

“Shemlen are freer with kisses than their touches.” Solas replies. “Another cultural thing you are going to have to look out for. They are not trying to steal your life. I promise. The humans aren’t aware of that particular belief of the Dalish. Nor are they attempting to marry you or bind you to them for eternity.”

“Are you _sure_?” She says, Solas sighs. “Sorry.”

“If you get kissed by a human and somehow become bonded to them for all of eternity I will take full responsibility.” Solas assures her.

“If they’re so free with kissing how come they are very strange with touching?” Lavellan asks, fingers picking at the blanket. Solas is going to figure out how she got so close before the wards activated eventually. He’s hoping it’s not because of the mark on her hand. As challenging as it would be to ward against _himself_ he’d rather not have to figure that out in the middle of a shack in the Frostbacks.

“The other races have it backwards.” Solas replies, sitting up and gesturing for her to sit on the cot next to him. “To us the mouth is the entry. You cast with your mouth, you decry and declare with your mouth. Your mouth eats, it spills. It sings, it chokes. It licks, it bites. The face is precious to us. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears. But to the other races, the other parts are more important. The face – the head – is very important, yes, but it is not the  most important.”

Lavellan frowns. Solas holds out his hands and she places hers in his. Immediate and obedient.

“To the humans it is touch that is important.” Solas says. “They feel their way through the world. Once, in a time long forgotten, the humans were not as gifted as they are today. Long ago, it was our people who held the magic. And so we could do things without touch. Purely with mana and our minds. We sang the world to life. With our silence we let it fall away. But for the quick, they used their hands. So touch is common. They touch everything. They killed with their touches, they gave life with their touches. And that is why touch, space, is so special for them.”

Lavellan looks like she almost understands.

“So – to shems. Sitting like this, with each other, is odd?”

“Yes.” Solas says. “It is intimate. To let someone this close, to allow them to touch like this, means intimacy. It means a bond of family or friendship, partnership. Their spaces are physical, Lavellan. Not mental as the Dalish’s are.”

“We all touched each other and were this close in the clan.” Lavellan mutters, her knees against his and her face illuminated in the soft glow of the green mark in her open palm. “How do they keep warm?”

“They make fires with their hands and tend to them.” Solas replies. “Out there, space was a luxury. You drew together for protection. Touch becomes common. Touch is life giving, necessary. Here they can have space. Most of them are used to it.”

“It seems so lonely.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Solas replies, and lets go of one of her hands to stretch his arm out to the side to its full length. “This. This is how far they want you to be. Arms distance.”

She commits the distance to her mind, but flips her palm to grip his hand in her small, cold one.

“As they grow more familiar with you, you may decrease that distance.” He says, touching her shoulder. “It is not a permanent distance, simply one you must work with. Earn. A strange concept, I know. But you will learn it. I promise you.”

“There’s so much to learn and unlearn.” She says, “I don’t know how you can keep it all in your head.”

“Experience.” Solas replies. “Go to sleep. You may stay here, tonight, if you’d like. But you must be gone before they wake up in the morning.”

She frowns, but lies down – head by his feet - and Solas reaches to the side towards where he’s kept his pack and pulls out a spare blanket, throwing it over her. Her hands curl up by her face. “Intimacy?”

“Yes.” Solas nods, lying back down. “Intimacy.”

-

Keeper sent me here to make sure the humans don’t turn on us before they turn on each other. She sent me because I am the First.

I am strong enough to lead on my own. But I am also expendable in my own way.

There is a Second and a Third after me, the magic in their blood as rich as my own. I am good enough, but I am also good enough to die.

Mahanon, I think. Mahanon, I love you. I wish I could bring you with me, but I go alone because better they only lose their First than their First and their best Hunter.

So many humans of so much importance gathering at once has never been good for any of us.

I go for the rest of the people. I may die so that they will know. If I die, they must run. Hide. Prepare. If I return with news, we must still run. Hide. Prepare.

War has been in the scent of the air for years.

I am the wolf and I am the bear. I hunt the scent. Then I am halla, running home. I am the rabbit and I am the owl. I am all the things in the woods. I am the First.

Here is me. And there _they_ are.

So many flags I do not know. It is so hard to keep up with the human banners. Always changing. Always shifting.

I have to blend in. Quickly. Carefully. I take my clothes off in the trees, folded carefully, I kiss the totem Mahanon carved for me. I press my forehead to the beads my parents made for me and press it to my forehead. Watch over me, Dirthamen. I need secrets. I need to be a secret.

Bare, I cast the sacred magic of Ghilan’ain. She, the changer of shapes. She the changer of flesh. She who’s craft passes on to us through our blood.

I change my shape to white hare. Unseen.

I listen to the world in my new shape and wait. I follow.

I find tents with people with ears like mine and I wait until they are gone to slip back into my own flesh and I put on their strange green clothes that do not fit but now I am one of them.

I pull a hood up and I long for the weight of beads and totems against my breast and I slip among them quiet. Listening to their strange words without sounds because they do not have the sounds I am used to, the sounds mamae sings in and the sounds Keeper casts in.

Quiet. I am among them. Quiet, now. I listen. I watch. I move like they move. I eat what they eat. I walk the way they walk. And the building of stone looms over me.

Conclave. I am here. I am First.


	94. Chapter 94

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s a storyteller and a merchant and a rogue so that means don’t believe a thing he says ever?”

“You’re jumpy. Why are you jumpy? That’s a new phrase I learned from Sera. _Jumpy_.” Lavellan rolls the word around her mouth, “Jumpy, _jumpy_ , jumpy. It’s funny because you don’t like jumping or anything very much. You like wine and sitting and sometimes dancing with a beautiful partner and occasionally setting people on fire when they deserve it.”

Dorian’s eyes flick to her and Maker he has no idea if he sometimes loves her or wants to turn her around and send her marching off towards someone else just to give his mind a few moments to gather his scattered thoughts. She has that effect of scattering everything when she comes near. Like she’s a little wind storm in the flesh that rips through people’s minds with the serenity of a potato or turnip.

“You.” Dorian says, grasping her by the shoulders and deciding on the latter route, turning her around and in the direction of Solas. The man could use a good headache. It’d make Dorian feel so much better. “You go talk to your hahren for a few hours. Twist his mind. Make him crazy. Make it audible so I can hear it and feel better.”

“Why are you so jumpy though?”

“Because the Inquisition has made me insane.”

“But Varric says – “

“What have we said about what Varric says?”

“He’s a storyteller and a merchant and a rogue so that means don’t believe a thing he says ever?”

“Exactly. Go on. Go bother your bald old hermit of a teacher.”

Lavellan makes a slightly scandalized noise but goes off anyway because she’s absolutely wonderful like that.

“I’ll figure it out eventually.” Lavellan says as she leaves, “Cole would help me.”

“Not unless he’s already helping me.” Dorian points out.

“But I’m _his favorite_.” Lavellan mutters, a particular bounce to her step that means she’s entered one of her sulking moods.

-

She is nice, she is the sun and small flocks of birds – us, you, me, them, people with faces and names that I do not know because they are _her_ people. Private, tucked away careful and secret in the velvet lined chambers of her heart where no shemlen can catch or touch or ruin them like they ruin her and she only thinks she is a ruin sometimes when she thinks about the shoes on her feet and the empty sounds of her consonants and the dull tones of her vowels. She only thinks she’s ruined when she touches the books that have not seen elven hands in centuries and when she stands next to a Tevinter Altus who believes slavery is _better_. Private faces kept carefully clear and away because if you love something you hide it. You hide it and you pretend it doesn’t exist and doesn’t matter even if it did that way no one will hurt that hidden thing to hurt you and that way everyone is safe, not happy but _safe_.

She is blinding and sometimes I look at her and the darkness of her dreams but she fights it all off, a glimmer in the darkness that holds fast against every lie and twisted almost truth and she never needs me.

Stay, she says as the others call me demon. The one that is Proud also says _stay_ but it is because of the way she says _stay_ with her eyelashes and the tips of her toes that I stay. Because when they say _go_ and _stay_ she says _help_.

That is what I do. I _help_.

I am Compassion and she is compassionate and together we can help so many people even if she has to hide most of them, indirect, in her velvet chambers.

I am Cole, or you can call me Cole.

Spirit-friend, she says in a language that makes me remember, that pulls at me from all times and all places. She is an elf and they remember things that I forget. Things that everyone forgets except Proud Pride because he is something larger than us both.

Flesh made spirit.

Be careful, I want to tell her. Because when I look at him I see something bigger than a sun. Vaster than Empires. Be careful, I want to tell her, because he is large and he will swallow all of you and I can’t save you from that. I’m not big enough. I am Compassion. I’m small touches. _Forget_. I could try to make you forget that Pride but he is too large and he is too much part of you, I’d make you forget parts of yourself. You could never forget Pride.

I want to warn her. I want to warn her because she is the sun with birds and birds with suns in their beaks, stars in their breasts and if she gets hurt then the constellation falls and then the sky comes after.

But I can’t because Pride takes the words and he hurts too, but I can’t stitch the spaces together they are so vast and always bleeding fresh sorrows. A well of sorrows.

I am Cole and she says _help_ and I say _yes_ and she smiles and I feel warm like a star has touched my chest and now I am _kid_ and _boy_ and _spirit_ and _it_ and _demon_ but I am also _friend_.

I cannot tell her because the words are too big and I cannot make it go away because it is too much but I can be here because she said stay and I said yes and I can at least protect the velvet chamber and her hidden-things with stars in their breasts.

-

“She’s _what_?”

“Teaching Madame de Fer to dance. Like an elf.” Dorian repeats. Smug as Krem coughs his way through the ale that went down the wrong pipe. “I was enjoying it immensely then she told me to leave because the next few dances could only be seen by women.”

“And the – the Madame is just going along with it?”

“Yes.” Dorian cackles and Krem wants to say that this is the reason why people keep giving Dorian suspicious glances. That and the way he twirls his mustache.

“She looked like she was enjoying herself.” Dalish says from behind them, starling them both and sending Krem into another coughing fit. “The Enchanter, I mean. Da’len _always_ enjoys herself.”

Dalish plucks Krem’s bottle from his fingers and squeezes herself in between the two.

“Besides it’s a fair exchange. The woman teaches da’len shem dances, so da’len has to teach her a few of our more common dances in return.” Dalish hums, picking at the label on the bottle. “Oh, Krem. You’re supposed to be the alcohol expert. This is absolutely awful for a mid-afternoon drink.”

“You have no taste.” Krem says, “Eating all those poison mushrooms and shit killed your tastebuds.”

“It’s only poison to _you_.” Dalish points out. “I’m just _fine_.”

“Elves.” Krem mutters.

“Either way, it was incredibly amusing to watch.” Dorian says. “I so enjoy watching that woman suffer.”

“She didn’t look like she was suffering.”

“She’s good at making a certain face to put people off.” Dorian replies. “It took me a few weeks to figure it out myself. And Dalish is right, that’s a terrible vintage for afternoon drinks. Honestly, Krem. We’re supposed to be the ones with _taste_ around here.”

“Ever think there might have been a reason why we got _kicked out_ of Tevinter?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t kicked out of Tevinter. I _left_.”


	95. Chapter 95

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You could ask him. If you’d like.” Solas would like to speak with Cole, and learn more about him and try understand how he has shaped himself as human.

“Wake up, _wake up, hahren, wake up_.” She hisses, because she dreamed that he went to sleep and never woke up again and they lost and the world was falling into the Fade or maybe the Fade was falling into the world and _he wouldn’t wake up_.

Maybe he was _in_ the Fade somewhere, walking someplace she’d never been before.

Hahren wakes, hands stopping hers as she shakes him.

“What is it, da’len?” He asks, quiet and tired sounding but he’s awake and that’s _good_ because -

“Is it possible for us to go into _uthenera_ even though we’re _shem_?” She asks, because she didn’t think it was. Their lives are too short for the long sleep, they’ve lost too much of the _people_ to have the magic for it. But her hahren has more magic and knowledge than anyone she’s ever met – shem or not – and she has the mark of a god on her hand and scarred across her mana. She figures that if anyone could enter the _uthenera_ it’d be one of them.

Hahren blinks at her, frowning - “The eternal dream is reserved for the immortal elves, da’len.”

“I know. I know. But so were eluvians and dream-walking and so was this magic and the magic of the arcane knights.” She replies. “Is it possible?”

Hahren is quiet in contemplation for a moment, sitting up and holding up a hand to stall her.

“It is not _impossible_.” He answers. Lavellan feels her heart seize in her chest but he takes her hands in his. “But, da’len, I assure you. If the waking dream were to come upon someone, _you would know_. And you could _stop it_. It takes time to enter the waking sleep. It is not instant. There are preparations to be made.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you doubt?”

“No.” Lavellan flinches, “I don’t. But – I had a dream.”

Solas waits because dreams are important. Humans don’t understand it as well, how important dreams are. Dreams save lives and they can take them, too. Dreams are how spirits speak and how Gods descend.

“I dreamed that you went into the waking dream, hahren.” Lavellan says, careful to keep her fingers from knotting because that means nerves and that means weak and that means he might not believe her and he has to because she needs to _know_. She can’t let them die. “And I couldn’t wake you. And then we lost and I still couldn’t wake you. I couldn’t win without you. But you wouldn’t wake up and you had gone somewhere in the Fade I could not find you. And the Veil ripped and it became like you said before. Spirits and this world becoming one and it wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.”

Solas rests his hand on the top of her head, soothing with cool, old, and calm mana. Lavellan closes her eyes and lets it wash over her. Pale and deep and rich and pure. Someday, if she grows old enough, her mana will be pure like that too, with luck.

“There are ways to wake the sleepers.” He says. “And if, _if_ , I were to ever enter the waking dream you would know. I would tell you. At the very least, your spymaster would figure out something odd is going on and alert someone.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Solas says, pressing his thumb to her temple. “Now go back to sleep, da’len. It is late, and we have a few days of travel left before we return to Skyhold. If you’d like, there I could guide you to some of the memories I’ve found of the waking dream.”

“Yes.” Lavellan breathes. “Ma serannas, hahren.”

-

“Your thoughts on the spirit?” Solas asks as she carefully traces out runes.

“He’s nice. I watched him leave out plums for spiders. I didn’t know other people did that.” Lavellan says, careful because if she does it wrong she could accidentally set something on fire. “A question, hahren.”

Solas nods as he reads over her copybook for mistakes in conjugation.

“Cole is not a human.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“So – does that mean it would be alright _not_ to hide in front of him?” Lavellan asks. “He’s a spirit, so that means no country. So it should be alright, right?”

“Yes.” Solas says, glancing down at her as she kicks her legs. He’s offered her the desk twice but she seems content to lay on the floor. It’s terrible for her posture. “Cole should pose no threat to either of us, if you should so choose to act and behave in the way you feel most comfortable. Cole does not have the shemlen biases. Acting as you would normally around him and speaking as you would prefer will be fine as long as he does not mention or repeat it to others.”

Lavellan nods, humming a little of what Solas recognizes to be a prayer to Sylaise.

“He’s thin.” She says after a few seconds. “Do you think he eats or sleeps?”

“Spirits don’t, normally.” Solas answers. “Cole is a strange case. He might. You could try.”

Lavellan flicks her foot -

“Don’t bother the boy.” Solas says, “If he says _no_ don’t push.”

Lavellan sighs, “I won’t. I don’t _push_.”

She does but Solas isn’t going to be the one to tell her that.

“Do you think he’d be able to help with my lessons?”

“You could ask him. If you’d like.” Solas would like to speak with Cole, and learn more about him and try understand how he has shaped himself as human.

The next few minutes are spent with Solas marking out where her apostrophes should have gone as she finishes writing out the elemental runes.

“Hahren?” She asks as she hands him the copybook to look over.

“Hm?”

“Do you think Cole would let me try on his hat? I’ve never seen a hat like that one before. It looks really _neat_.”

Solas feels his lip twitch upwards. “Perhaps you out to go find Cole and ask him.” He waves his hand at her. “I will send these back to you when I am done correcting them.”

Lavellan winces, torn between excitement at being told to find Cole and nerves.

“I am sure you have improved.” Solas assures her. “Your conjugation for the more complicated verbs is doing much better than it was a few weeks ago. I haven’t used nearly as much red as last time.”

“Oh. Good.” Lavellan says, warily eyeing the inkpot. “I’ll see you later then, hahren.”


	96. Chapter 96

Varric finds Cole sitting, half concealed by the various shrubbery, in the garden, three small kittens in his lap, held in loosely the the circle of his arms and his thin hands.

“There you are, been wondering where you went off to, Kid.”

“I’ve been here the entire time.” Cole replies, “I may go away sometimes but I always come back because this is where I am needed most. I do best here. Hello, Varric. Why do kittens make you sad?”

Varric blinks. “Because I had a friend who really liked them once.”

The kid’s eyes are downright eerie, the way they almost glow from underneath his hair and his hat and just looks into you.

“Raw, hurting, hurts, healing, healers. Help. Helped. Helping. Steady hands and something steady and rock hard on the inside except rock breaks, it explodes, and it takes and it’s gone, going and gone. Goodbye. Friend, once upon a time, no ever after, just once, once in a time far away. Kind hands, warm heart, warm hearth.” Cole looks down at the kittens and Varric breathes out something heavy that makes his bones creak because he’s old and this entire end of the world shit doesn’t help.

“Yeah.” Varric says.

“I’m sorry.” Cole continues after a second, “I don’t mean to make it hurt worse, but sometimes I mean to say thing out loud and I don’t and sometimes I say things I meant to say to myself and it gets all mixed up.”

“It’s not exactly alright, but I know it’s not to hurt me.” Varric says. “I’m actually here because you’ve set off Sparkler and Vivienne with your meowing.”

“She meows, too.” Cole says and Varric guesses that he means Lavellan.

“Yeah, well, they’re worried about you both.” Granted, the Enchanter is mostly worried about Cole doing something sinister via meowing, but Varric isn’t going to be the one to tell her how crazy she sounds. “So, what’s up with the meowing?”

“They are lost.” Cole replies, looking down at the kittens. “So you meow to let them know it’s okay and that you’re safe. Because they don’t understand people words like you do, they only understand cat words because they are cats. So we use cat words, too, to make them feel better. Because they are hiding and don’t know when to come out.”

It actually makes some sense, which is saying something either about Varric’s rapidly deteriorating sanity or Cole’s logic.

“I keep them here while she goes for the rest of them.” Cole says. “Because no one ever looks for me so I can keep them together and safe without anyone taking me away. They are always pulling her away, this way and that way, all the ways.”

“That they do. That’s why it’s up to you and me to pull her back, right?” Varric says, moving to stand next to Cole, looking down at the kittens. “How many are there?”

“More.” Cole says after a moment. “Coming.”

That’s all the warning Varric gets before Lavellan bursts out of the trees above him, upside down and gently deposits two meowing kittens on Cole’s head.

“Hello, Varric, are you here to help with the kittens?”

He supposes he is, _now_.

“Sparkler’s worried about you.” Varric says, catching one of the kittens before it can take a tumble off of Cole’s hat. The cat meows at him, blinking up at him as it curls up in his hand, as if to say _I had that, I totally had that_. He mentally names the cat _Hawke_ and sets it down next to its siblings.

“Why?” Lavellan asks, blinking at him just like the kitten did – _I totally have this, really_  – and Varric shrugs. “I’ll check on him later. Do you think he’d like a kitten?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s got his hands full with the puppy.”

Lavellan trills out a light laugh that seems to flicker through the garden before disappearing back into the trees. He swears that she blends in with rock. The trees here are almost bare and scraggly and she still disappears in them.

-

“How’re you feeling?” Dorian asks, brushing damp hair away from her face. “You look much better, let me tell you. And we all know looks are about half the job.”

Lavellan squints up at him, and the air is so dry through her nose and her mouth feels like it cracks when it opens.

“Hi.” She says, because you should always say hello when you can because it’s a friendly thing to do and that’s what shems do, apparently, according to hahren all those weeks ago. “Dorian.”

Dorian smiles at her and there are these super faint lines at the corners of his eyes that make Lavellan want to touch her fingers to his skin because he is quick and she is quick but it feels like he’s paces ahead of her and she doesn’t want him to leave her behind.

She coughs and closes her eyes again and it’s terribly hot which is odd because Skyhold doesn’t get very warm, not ever, especially not in her room which is all glass and windows and endless sky from three walls around her with no trees or dirt or stone.

Dorian says something in Tevene that sounds soft and a lot like the hushed whispering songs mamae and the other hahren would sing at night when she was little so she and the rest of the children could fall asleep.

Tevene borrows from the Dalish, she told him once, and he just hummed and glanced down at the rotunda because she needs to give him and Solas something to talk about without getting at each other’s throats. She needs them both. She hopes they know that. She loves them both. She knows they have to know that.

Dorian’s hand is light and cool on her forehead and she feels him trace the lines of her vallaslin and she wants to trace the lines at his eyes but she’s so tired and it’s really hot and it feels nice to just lie here quietly.

Dorian keeps saying something in Tevene and stroking her head and her hair and her heart aches a little because this isn’t the clan but it’s something like home because home is where she is, she said to Cassandra once in Haven far away in a place that was home for a little while, and home is the people and Dorian is her people.

He places something cool on her head and she wants to turn and curl around him and breathe in his skin and his magic and promise him it’s going to be alright because she won’t stop here and it’s okay so stop worrying. She doesn’t, she hopes he understands anyway, when she manages to curl her fingers into the straps around his arms and pull a little.

Dorian pauses his flow of Tevene-Dalish-us and he squeezes her hand and she knows what he says next and she smiles because _I love you, too_.


	97. Chapter 97

She is not a general. She is not a soldier. She isn’t a scout and she isn’t even a field medic. In the end, Leliana has to remind herself that the girl _is not human_ , and the girl may be part of the Inquisition, they may have given her the name of _Herald of Andraste_ , but when you cut it down to the bone she is something earth and stone, something older than empires and vaster than traditions. She is something in the marrow that sings of ancient things, things brought low and chained fast but alive. Breathing giants that watch through slit eyes and wait.

It’s hard to remember, sometimes. And it’s even harder to tell if it’s real or not.

Because this is the girl who likes to play with buttons and sleeps on rooftops. This is the girl who meanders through Skyhold’s halls making animal noises to coax out strays, the girl who plays cat’s cradle with twine sitting on barrels in the dark corners of kitchens as she listens to gossip and sneaks out sweeties for the children and orphans of soldiers and pilgrims outside. This is the girl who rolls around in hay and is chased by puppies and has trouble reading and collects acorns.

This is the girl with a hand that glows a poisonous and insidious green that is the source of nightmares and demons and hope and happy endings. This is the girl with lightning that dances over her skin and eyes that glow in the night and blood writing over her skin that was earned in complete silence. She is the girl who’s voice raises like a wave and says _No more deaths_. She is the girl who looks Qunari in the eye and says _disobey_. She is the girl who looks at dwarves and commands them _dream_. She is the one who looks spirits in the heart and says _bleed_.

Leliana doesn’t know – perhaps Bull knows, maybe _Solas_ knows the truth of this girl with a continent tucked in the dark holes of her eyes – if it’s real or not. Because there are these moments where the hair on the back of her neck raises when she looks at Lavellan for too long.

Something other, something old, something beautiful and frightening – like the silhouette of a stag in the foggy morning, or the whisper of a dragon’s wings on stone. Like the stillness of a wolf in the snow or a bear in the distance.

There is something in her that is so far removed from this, from flesh and words and table manners and dancing lessons and politics that it makes Leliana think of dark nights in the woods with open fires and the haunted eyes of a woman with the thoughts of an Archdaemon echoing through her dreams.

Lavellan has the blood of a people so old that their bones grew into cities and cultures.

So that’s what  makes it incredibly hard to remember, sometimes.

Lavellan is _not a soldier_. She is no rank and file posting to be ordered, she isn’t a scout who slips into shadows, and she is not used to this kind of war. The Dalish are born and bred to fight all sorts of wars their entire lives.

But not these wars. Not human wars. Not large wars like this.

Lavellan mourns each and every loss, like it’s personal. Takes it to heart like a wound. She seems so young. So _soft_.

Leliana sometimes wonders if that is real or not. It – it feels real, except for the times when Lavellan’s eyes snap into something far away and still and consuming.

Still – Leliana can’t help but trust her. It’s so hard not to trust and _believe_.

She _cries_ for the _horses_ lost.

Leliana believes because the only other option is to see the many layers underneath that kindness and Leliana can’t afford to do that in this war.

They can’t afford to be wrong.

-

“Do you pray?” Lavellan asks him and Solas blinks, turning to look at her from the corner of his eye as he lowers his arm. Astronomy will apparently be put on hold for the moment. “I know you believe, in your own way. Maybe not like everyone else. But do you believe enough to pray?”

“I do not pray.” He replies. “Why do you ask?”

Lavellan holds his gaze, “Because I want to know what you do to comfort yourself when faced against impossible odds.”

He does not think she will ever run out of surprises for him.

“People pray for comfort.” She continues. “Because they believe that there is some power out there that cares and is going to help them, for various reasons – some generous and some not. People take the names of the Gods they believe in because it makes them feel a connection. But you never call on Mythal or Elgar’nan or Fen’harel. You don’t use their epithets and you don’t use them as curses and you don’t really ever mention them outside of our lessons. But I know you believe that they existed in some form. So if you don’t pray to them, what do you do for comfort?”

“I believe in what is around me, and in the ultimate truth that the world must continue to turn.” Solas replies. Good does not always prevail, the best intentions do not lead to the desired outcome, and what you love is not what the world needs. “I believe that regardless of actions the world will force its own balance and that it is beyond our control.”

Lavellan lowers her eyes.

“There is that which we can control.” He continues and this is a lesson that has been centuries in the making for him, “We can control ourselves. We can control what we do and what we say. We cannot control the effects of what we do. We have intents and purposes, but the world does not always act in the way we hope it will. Accept that. Understand it.”

“It seems very sad.”

“It is the grim truth, da’len.” Solas lowers his voice. “And so we must take responsibility for those actions because it was our intent, and our purpose gone wrong. And we learn. And we exercise caution. We know not what the ripples of our lives disturb.”


	98. Chapter 98

“Variety is the spice of life – or so I’m told - so this time I thought it would be nice to make you extremely disappointed by telling you that I was _not_ drunk and I was entirely sober and I was actually the voice of reason and the only reason it all got cocked up was because Cassandra Pentaghast is a terrifying woman.” Dorian declares. “We should never let her gamble. Ever. _Ever_.”

Cullen, at this point, still does not know why he has to be the one to deal with all of this. Clearly he isn’t dealing with it well enough, considering that despite all his lectures and numerous attempts at disciplinary action people are _still_ acting irresponsibly and getting into trouble.

Josephine or Leliana should really be the ones handling this. He doesn’t think there’s anyone alive fool enough to consciously do something to earn a lecture from one of those two and then _keep doing the thing they were just told not to do_. Except perhaps Lavellan.

In their words, he really is just here to look _pretty_. And yell at soldiers and provide tactical information.

Apparently it’s a _morale_ boost to see him training among the rank and file troops.

Cullen personally thinks that the people of Skyhold have too much time on their hands, for an organization supposedly out to save the world from an ancient magical being who might have caused the first _Blight_. He also thinks that there ought to be someone more qualified than him for this because clearly it isn’t working.

“Cassandra.” Cullen repeats, because he doesn’t think Cassandra could ever have it in her to do something like this. At least, not sober.

The woman is an unholy terror when drunk and Cullen knows this from firsthand experience, seeing as _he’s always the one they call when she gets drunk_.

He is either the babysitter for a series of incredibly powerful and important people – and an inept one at that – or he is the Commander of the Inquisition’s army and he’s still not sure which one it is, except that he isn’t getting paid for it and he doesn’t even really mind not getting paid because he’s fairly certain there is no one else in this entire world who can say that they’ve seen a Dalish elf riding on top of a Qunari mercenary’s back waving around a banana attached to a long stick at a Tevinter mage sitting on top of a Gray Warden’s shoulders who is waving around a _wheel of cheese_.

The stories he could tell and _won’t_ because unlike _some people –_ Varric – he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

“Cassandra.” Dorian nods. “I’d say her full name, but to tell you the truth, I always get the position of the Allegora and Portia confused.”

Cassandra probably gets the positions of the Allegora and Portia confused, too.

“She did this.” Cullen points at the scrap piece of paper that a scout had quickly jotted down the report on to hand to him – the other side has half a report of what looks like their preserve stores and expected consumption rate on it – so he’d know what happened before Dorian got there. It’s become necessary for that because Dorian keeps lying about why, exactly, he gets into trouble.

“You really had to be there.” Dorian says, reaching over to adjust the little acorn pile at the corner of his desk. “Is this a new one?”

“Yes. She found it near one of the Avaar landmarks at Redcliffe.” Cullen says. “I really don’t know what to say here except don’t do it again, but knowing you, I’ll probably be seeing you this afternoon.”

“I’ll bring your midday meal.” Dorian nods, “One should never be exasperated on an empty stomach.”

-

“If I did not know better, I would say that you _missed_ me.” Solas says when he opens the door to the rotunda to see Dorian glaring at his half-finished fresco of Haven.

“Good thing you do.” Dorian replies, “I can’t believe that you’ve got Josephine buying the best lapis lazuli for _this_. And when _I_ ask for something as simple as an accurate book on Tevinter be brought in, suddenly it’s as if I’ve started asking for miracles. A waste of resources, I tell you.”

Solas ignores him and places his travel pack next to his desk. He doubts Lavellan continued with her studies while he was away.

“She was worried you wouldn’t come back, you know.” Dorian says after a moment of glaring at scaffolding. “You’re all she has, you realize.”

“I thought you were the favorite?”

“Is that a note of jealousy I sense?” Dorian raises an eyebrow. “I may be the favorite, but you’re all she has. The only other elf she regularly comes into contact with is _Sera_ and I don’t think I need to explain why that isn’t very helpful to her at all.”

“I would not leave something that I have started.” Solas replies.

They do not know who’s fault this is. He could not leave this alone even if he wanted to. This is his, more than it is hers or any human’s, or even Corypheus’.

“I think she knows that. I think we all know that. You’re a stubborn fellow, I give you that.” Dorian frowns. “But the worry was genuine, for her. Worry isn’t always the most rational or logical thing there is. So don’t be surprised if she’s somewhat clingy for the next few hours. And then terrifyingly astute and observant for the next few days. You _scared_ her.”

Solas imagines that there is not much that can scare his da’len.

“My _da’len_ is always astute and observant.” Dorian’s lip twitches upwards at the epitaph.

“Yes, well _your_ da’len is also outnumbered by _shemlen savages_ by over a hundred to one so do be careful with that.” Dorian sighs, “I cannot understand how you can tolerate the smell of turpentine in a _library_.”

“It covers the smell of drunken fools.” Solas sits down, flipping open to the notes one of Leliana’s scholars must have left for him.

Dorian lets out a louder sigh. “I cannot believe I am saying this – _welcome back_. Skyhold just isn’t the same without someone for me to yell at.”


	99. Chapter 99

“Alright. I’m gonna need you to do that thing where you stare at something without blinking.” Sera says, sitting Lavellan down on a dusty barrel. “You know, the one where you just _look_ at something with those weird dead people eyes of yours like you’re looking into their minds and seeing all their deep dark secrets.”

Lavellan turns to Blackwall for translation.

“She means look straight ahead and imagine the books Solas is going to be making you read when you get back.”

“Oh.” Lavellan shoots Sera an odd look, “Alright, but I don’t see how this is supposed to be helpful.”

“Just do it, alright?”

Lavellan shrugs before facing forward and freezing in place.

“Great. Just sit there an’ do that. I’ll be back with a guy.”

“What guy?”

“No talking, either. Just sit there and look creepy like you normally do.”

“But I’m not – “

“No talkin’.” Sera turns to Blackwall. “And you look menacing. Like you’re gonna – I don’t know. Rip a guy’s face off with his mustache.” She turns to Dorian. “And you go hide. There’s no way to make you look menacing.”

“I could always twirl my mustache and cackle whilst rubbing my palms together like a cliche theater villain.” Dorian points out. “Fine, fine. I want no part in this travesty _anyway_.”

“Dorian isn’t cliche.” Lavellan mumbles. “He’s unique and special.”

“Thank you.”

“What’d I say about talking?”

“Don’t?”

Sera kicks the barrel. Lavellan wrinkles her nose and folds her arms before resuming her staring with a loud sigh.

“Alright. Everyone stay where you are as you are. I’ll be right back. Remember, _no talking_.”

Sera disappears around the corner and Lavellan wiggles her toes and hopes it won’t be long. Just thinking about all the studies she’s fallen behind on is incredibly trying. She has four astrarium sets to practice. _Four_.

There’s a sound of a struggle and Lavellan almost gets up to see what’s going on, but from here she can also see Dorian and he’s telling her it’s alright, so she’ll believe him.

A few seconds later, Sera drags a man – Ferelden, from the look of his clothes, but she can’t be too sure from here – around the corner, points at her and says something to the man who grows pale. Sera then drags him back from wherever they came from.

Dorian must be able to hear what they’re saying – or at least read Sera’s lips well enough from where he’s hiding because he’s trying to smother a laugh. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Blackwall making a face. Lavellan would make that face, too but Sera really wanted her to hold still.

Sera comes back a moment later with a few specks of blood on the front of her tunic and a satisfied look on her face.

“So I got the information Josephine needed and some interesting things for your spymaster.”

Dorian bursts out into laughter, now that it’s apparently alright to move again.

Lavellan lets out a breath.

“What did you do?”

“I told him that the Herald of Andraste is a right savage – “

“I am _not!”_

“ – yeah, but he don’t know that, does he? He just knows you’re Dalish and everyone knows that the Dalish are crazy and eat babies.” Sera replies. “Anyway. Told him you’re a right savage and that you’re just around the corner an’ you’re gettin’ impatient. And he wouldn’t like it when you’ve lost your patience.”

“I like to think I’m very patient.”

Sera ignores her.

“Seeing as he wouldn’t believe me, I took him over to you and told him. ‘See there? That’s the look she gets on her face when she’s ready to go shem hunting.’ And he damn near wet himself and told me everything as long as I gave him a head start.”

“ _Sera!”_

“What? It worked, didn’t it?”

“You should have seen his _face!_ He actually _believed her_.” Dorian snorts from the background.

-

“The fact of the matter is that she will survive.” Leliana says, “None of you will. She will survive and she will succeed. She will thrive. She was born in those woods and by her gods, she will die in those woods. You’d only be slowing her down.”

“So you let her run off on her own?” Cassandra snaps, “And don’t give me the line about anybody letting her do anything, Leliana. We all know that if you truly wanted you could have her doing exactly what you want. You let her go on her own.”

“Cole is following her. And I have scouts in the area already.” Leliana replies. “Don’t speak to me as if I’ve done something wrong, Cassandra. She is _grieving_. I think we all know that she is not recovering from her losses. I believe that she is, at the very least, finally in a place where she won’t do anything rash. She needs to see this. She needs to be there.”

“Exactly, Leliana. She is _grieving_. We do not know what she will do.” Cassandra presses her knuckles against the table top, hearing and feeling the crack. “She cannot be alone.”

“It was either let her go with supplies and our blessing or have her escape alone. Either let her go with good will, or earn her enmity by holding her back. We cannot afford to make her doubt us. We need her. And we need her willing and we need her whole. She would be neither if we kept her here like a prisoner.”

“It is for her own good! Her own _safety!_ Do you think I am _heartless_? I know she hurts. I know she wishes to see to her dead. But there is an entire army of fanatics out there looking for her. There are demons that walk this plane and rifts in the veil. And as upset and hurt as she is – it is not wise to let her go alone. I know she has Cole with her. But Cole is not enough. Danger comes in many forms and Cole will not always know what to do and what to look for. We both know she would have escaped your scouts within the day.”

“And what would you have me do, Cassandra? The only person she cannot escape is Cole and even that is debatable. If she wanted she could vanish from him, also. I did the best I could. Now we can only hope and have faith. Sometimes that is all one can do.”


	100. Chapter 100

“And on your left, you can see a beautiful elven fresco, hand painted by one of the scholars of Skyhold.” Dorian blinks, setting down his book in favor of going to lean over the banister and see what in the world is going on at the rotunda level. That hermit would never allow anyone to walk in like that -

Dorian stares at what looks like Varric leading an entire group of pilgrims through the rotunda, nodding as people approach him with questions.

Varric is leading a guided tour of Skyhold and Dorian doesn’t know if this is a joke or actually something he’s been told to do by Josephine. It could go either way, honestly.

So Dorian leans against the railing and waits for a hint as to which one it is.

For all he knows, Varric lost a bet _to_ Josephine. Which would be odd as the dwarf ought to know better than to bet against her by now.

He waves when Varric catches his eye, and Varric raises his voice -

“And if you look up, you’ll see Dorian Pavus, Tevinter mage and close friend of the Herald of Andraste in a replica of his natural habitat. You notice that he isn’t dressed for living in the mountains. His kind are especially sensitive to the weather, so we do our best to keep him nice and protected inside our castle walls. Always keep your Tevinter happy.”

Some of the pilgrims actually look intimidated. Dorian is going to be having _words_ with Varric over that introduction.

“Have you shown them their Herald of Andraste, yet?” Dorian calls down.

Varric gives a theatrical sigh.

“Alas, our mystical and rare Herald has proved herself as elusive as ever. Any hints, Sparkler?”

Lavellan is actually helping the cooks prepare the midday meal, but Dorian isn’t about to unleash a good two dozen pilgrims on her in such cramped quarters. The kitchen staff would never forgive him and he’d be stuck eating oats for the rest of his days.

“Sadly, no. She had not deigned to reveal her beautiful visage to me and save me from my depraved ways this morning.”

She was there when they went to sleep last night – falling asleep over a deep discussion of the roots of Tevene in comparison to the original elvish and the possible evolution of the language from there – but when he woke up she was gone and his mouth tasted like a nug shat in it.

Krem was the one who told him that she was in the kitchens and Dorian doesn’t quite have enough courage to waltz in there when he knows that at least two of the cooks are out to get him because of that one time he insulted their seasoning of the potatoes.

They hold _grudges_ and Dorian isn’t going to fan the flames by entering their home territory. He’s fairly sure they’re trying to poison him, anyway. It’s a silent war of them feeding him things he disapproves of, and him aiming round-about comments to whoever will listen and probably relay it back to them.

“Then we shall continue our tour by taking a look at the drafty and well fortified Commanders office.” Varric says, waving the group towards the rotunda doors, giving Dorian a salute on the way out.

Dorian considers warning the Commander that a group of devotes is about to be marching in through his door via magic but then decides against it.

Maybe he’ll be rattled by the experience and lose this afternoon’s game. One can only hope.

-

“There is, my dear, a certain spring to your step. One cannot help but wonder the cause of it.” Vivienne asks as Lavellan comes up the stairs for her etiquette lessons. The Winter Ball may be over, but the flood of dignitaries and social events that have started filling Josephine’s schedule have only just begun.

“I.” Lavellan declares, coming to a stop at the mock-dinner table set up for practice, “Have worked my way up in the sparring ring to go up against Skinner. I am deeply excited and a touch nervous about it. We are also allowed to use weapons and I do not think my knife work will ever be as good as hers.”

“Well certainly not with _that_ attitude.” Vivienne replies, standing at her elbow. “No actual food for this one, you have a late lunch with Josephine and a visiting Duchess with property close to one of the Inquisition’s protectorates. It wouldn’t do for you to be full and not eat.”

Though Vivienne has actually yet to see Lavellan _be_ full.

“Do you know how to knife fight Madame Vivienne? You seem like the type who knows so many things. And I imagine that since you work with a blade you’d know a little bit about knives as well.”

“I know my way around a knife well enough to cut ingredients for alchemical recipes. Beyond that I am not qualified to say.” Vivienne replies. “I, for one, will not be willing to measure my skills against your _Skinner_. Now. How do we address the Duchess?”

“Politely and with words?”

Vivienne raises an eyebrow.

Lavellan sighs and folds her hands together underneath the table.

“Are you sure Josephine can’t do it herself?”

“Lady Montileyet can most certainly do it herself, but one must show their face once in a while. Assure the people that all is well and all is competent. You _want_ to win over the good people’s favor, and charm the bad. Never give any excuse they may use against you. You _do_ want to be involved in your own organization, do you not? It is _your_ name they use, after all.”

“It’s not _my_ Inquisition. It’s _everyone’s_ Inquisition. I’m just the person with a peculiar hand.” Lavellan mutters. “Either way, I’m not letting this get me down. I have gone up in the training ring. It is a lovely day.”

“It is a lovely day. It will only continue to grow more so if you can remember the events of last time. Shall we begin now, in earnest?”


	101. Chapter 101

In the beginning there was darkness.

And then there was fear.

And then there was light.

And there was pain and terror and that is the world that Lavellan was born into. It is an endless series of births, darkness and fear, light and pain. To live is to hurt. To live is to be afraid. To live is to keep going, anyway.

There is no _winning_ in life. No victor. You do not win by pushing through the fear. There is no victory in continuing to breathe. Not in this, not against this world without gods.

Somewhere, Mythal and Sylaise look on them with love and mercy. Somewhere, Andruil screams and shrieks and thrashes. Somewhere Elgar’nan burns and sparks. Somewhere, Dirthamen hides his face and Falon’din grasps at empty air. Somewhere, Jun’s forge grows cold and his hands grow hot. Somewhere Ghilan’ain rampages.

Somewhere, the Dread Wolf waits.

But that somewhere is not here, not now. Here is Corypheus. Here is the Maker. Here is Andraste.

Here is the darkness. Lavellan was born in the darkness of the wood with magic in her blood. There is food to eat and shelter, but there is no safety and there never will be.

Here is the fear. Humans. Blight. Undead. Wyverns. Tevinter. Plague. Winter frost. Starvation.

And then here is the light. Magic in her blood. Magic to make the clan strong enough to go one more day. Enough of the old in her newborn flesh to keep the People going against the shemlin, the Blight, the undead, the monsters, the Tevinter, the plagues, the frosts, and the hunger.

And there is the pain – losing so many babies that winter, so many elders who hadn’t passed on everything yet. Losing two halla to shemlin traps. Having to trade one of their crafstmen to another clan for a healer. We miss you, lethallin, return to us someday.

And the terror – will the _da’len_ survive? Will there be enough children? Is there enough food? How much can the halla carry? Where is safe? How far is the nearest clan? Can they help?

Lavellan has been told by shems and city-born People all her life that she’s a victory. Her existence, her life, is a success for her kind.

It isn’t. There was planning, involved. Strategy, certainly. After all, her people have been in a war against extermination for the past countless generations. There is strategy. There is planning. There are tactics and terrible sacrifices and worse choices to be made. There are losses, forests of losses.

But this is not victory.

Until her people are free, until the wrongs against them have been acknowledged, it is not victory.

Even now, as Herald of their Andraste, this is not victory.

Somewhere, her gods are trapped and her history is covered in blood and no shemlin will say a single word of tolerance and kindness to them. Somewhere, Shartan is burning and Andraste is rising. Somewhere here people beg and weep and bleed and rot. Somewhere, her clan struggles to survive.

It is not victory. Not yet.

In the beginning there is darkness. And in the end, there is slightly less of it.

-

“You don’t talk about your family.” Cole says, sounding out the soft syllables of the words as she draws ancient things into the ground. Does she know what they are? What they mean? Does she know who first drew them? There are old things inside of her and close to her that he doesn’t think she truly understands. Things older than Compassion. Things as old as Pride, himself.

“No one here talks about their family.” Lavellan points out. “Unless they’re complaining. I have no complaints.”

“Everyone says you should talk about the things that hurt you to feel better.” Cole tilts his head so he can see her better. He doesn’t need eyes to see but she is so bright that everything helps to make her clearer.

“They are all my family.” Lavellan replies. “You, too.”

“You make it sound so easy. Sera does not have a family. Bull does not have a family. They do not know families. Sera does not want one because it reminds her of a lady – “

Lavellan touches his nose with her finger. Warm and tingling with something old and something new, something borrowed, something _you_.

Cole quiets.

Lavellan smiles.

“Families make them uncomfortable. So I don’t talk about it. I don’t need to.”

“You want to. What you want is important. Because people want things and that helps make them people because it shows something about them.” According to Josephine, when he was listening to her talk to Leliana. “Baby with little hands, small and tiny, soft and velvet. Sweet smelling baby.”

“Blackberries and summer.”  Lavellan closes her eyes, tilting her face up like the Poppy Varric calls her. “So small in my arms, so sweet and soft. We shared our parent’s faces.”

“Mahanon, hunter with a smile that glistens like soft amber, sweet and gentle like it too. Mahanon, partner of the soul, his hands fit in the spaces between and settle everything in the air.”

Lavellan laughs. “Do you know them all?”

“Only because you let me see you dream them back to you.” Cole replies. “Mahanon.”

“Mahonon, the hunter.” Lavellan repeats, and they fall into a song, a rhythm, something that goes deeper than sounds, deeper than words. “Mahanon, my love, ma’vhenan, brother and reflection in one. Soul mate, my face is his face in ways our faces never belong to any of our parents or siblings or ancestors. His face is my face and what I throw up into the air he catches and what he breaks I fix and what I confuse he clears. He is the beginning and I am the end. He is the end and I am the beginning. Mahanon, the hunter who follows the light of my mana and loves daisies – white and small – most of all. Simple and laughing Mahanon.”

“Mother.” Cole prompts.

“Mamae, who shares my face and saves the best for me.” Lavellan sighs, and sings something soft with meaning that blends together in Cole’s mind so fast and so slow, so vast and so small that he cannot understand.

It all goes deeper than words.

Older.

Something Proud. Something Mother. Something Secrets.

“And Father who holds me tender-soft and silent in the trees.” Lavellan closes her eyes and sways, singing with magic softly smoking from her fingertips. “Keeper who guides me with hands soft like leather and a face inked with age.”

Lavellan sings and Cole sees without seeing and he feels her heart strong and weeping in his cupped hands and glowing warm and growing warmer.

“I listen.” Cole says, quietly as she sings something that is older than the both of them. Older than Pride. As old as Mother. “I hear.”

Lavellan sings and she smiles and she sways and she is built and made and crafted from something older than Skyhold, with something just as powerful in her bones. Cole listens. Cole obeys. Cole hears.


	102. Chapter 102

“You need to stop having pity on people who give you the starving wife and or child excuse.” Bull says. “Because most of the time, they’re playing you and then they go tell their friends and you let those people go because they give you a slightly modified sob story and it just goes on from there. So I need you to stop believing every person who does something and starts tearing up.”

“But you always catch them later for me, anyway.” Lavellan replies.

Bull blinks. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew.” Lavellan wrinkles her nose. “You’re my frontline bodyguard and spy. You wouldn’t let anything like that get in my way.  You always fix things for me even when I don’t want you to because you’re looking after me and I’m really thankful to you for that but sometimes you need to have mercy on people because that’s what causes change.”

Bull is, as ever, somewhat stunned by what goes on in her head and mostly amazed.

“That’s awful nice of you, boss. But with this, I promise, you aren’t going to get any real change.” Bull replies, regrouping. “And I’m going to be honest with you – “

“You’re almost always honest with me.” She says, patting his arm and smiling. “I deeply appreciate that from you, the Iron Bull.”

“Thanks, Boss. And since I’m being honest, I’ve got to tell you that chasing all those guys you let go down? Kind of tiring. Gets real draining after a while. Something of a waste of resources, too. So if you could cut down on the mercy and kindness that’d be great. Sure the boys would appreciate it. Also not that great for our rep. If you know what I mean.”

“I do not know what you mean.” Lavellan replies. “But if it’s that hard on you I’ll try to stop being nice.”

“Thanks.” Bull replies, and because he knows her - “I mean. Thanks for saying that. I know you’ll try and that makes something of a difference. You probably wont stop letting assholes go will you?”

“I will definitely try not to.” Lavellan nods. “But no promises.”

He supposes that she wouldn’t be _her_ otherwise. So he brushes his thumb over her forehead, takes a moment to be completely amazed at the fact that this tiny bas is his boss, and that he’s actually _happy_ having her as his boss, and goes back to watching Varric and Rocky square off at diamondback.

-

“Your patience is terrifying in its ability to handle the sheer amount of, well. Everything that goes on around here.” Krem declares as soon as Cullen’s finished lecturing whoever for whatever. “Really, how many years working with the Chargers and I still haven’t got that sort of patience in me. Maker knows I probably need it.”

“It isn’t their fault.” Cullen shrugs. “They’re farmers, not soldiers. I can’t simply expect them to get used to keeping a soldier’s hours or knowing a soldier’s habits. I have to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable.” Krem repeats, shaking his head. “Fairly certain I’ve heard of that word before. Rings a bell. Can’t think of any examples of reasonable that come to mind, though. Care to use it in a better sentence?”

“Very funny. Don’t you have things to be doing? The Chargers move out tomorrow morning, if I am not mistaken, on the Herald’s orders.”

“Bah. I leave the packing to Dalish and Stitches. They’re the ones who know what we actually need.” Krem snorts. “Besides, if I don’t show my face by the ring every so often, your recruits start thinking they’re safe. Don’t want that, now do we? That aside, I’m actually here to fetch you for your Ambassador. She seems rather busy running messages. Thought you had people for that.”

“Yes, well, not enough, it appears. What am I being fetched for?”

“As if I would know.” Krem’s lips twitch upwards. “She was in something of a hurry. Probably tracking the Herald down. I’m guessing it has something to do with the Inquisition and probably something that the leaders of our so noble cause need to discuss. Best hurry and find them, if I were you. Wouldn’t want my vote being cast by default just because I didn’t get there in time.”

“Lavellan wouldn’t let them vote for me.” Cullen replies, though he does cast a rather anxious look at the stairs to Skyhold’s main hall.  “She’d wait.”

“Gives them longer to convince her to their side.” Krem replies. “Go on. I’ll  yell at these farmers for you. I can probably fake a Ferelden accent as well as anyone.”

Skinner appears at Krem’s elbow, looking mildly amused and mostly disinterested as she balances a knife on her finger.

“You didn’t tell him that the meeting was for fabric swatches for the da’len’s dress to the Winter Ball.”

“Of course not, then he woulndn’t go.” Krem snorts. “And then I’d get in trouble for not telling him. Clearly I did. And the ambassador owes me a favor.”

“Flying nugs?”

“Flying nugs.”

-

“We need to figure out a way to say that she’s unavailable for political marriage without offending anyone.” Josephine says, casting a fond look out the window to where Lavellan is practicing the more delicate equestrian tricks with her – well. Undead horse. All things considered, the horse is remarkably gentle and surprisingly talented at dressage.

“We could say she’s with someone.” Leliana replies. “It wouldn’t be too hard. The rumors already put her together with half of her main fighting force.”

“Yes, well. I’d rather we didn’t do that.” Josephine answers. “It could be more trouble than it settles. Considering that half of her fighting forces are – well. Considered the sort of unsavory one does not bring to court and announce as their paramour.”

“It would be amusing to see how that would go, no?” Leliana raises her hand when Lavellan sees them, enthusiastically waving at them as the horse slows into a trot. “Could you imagine introducing Dorian to court? Or Blackwall? Oh – _Sera?”_

“I could, but I think I will pass on that image. It _would_ be amusing for a moment, but it really would be creating more problems than it solves.” Josephine sighs. “You would think people would be more focused on how she is going to fight Corypheus than who she will marry. The world might not even last that long.”

“They’re short sighted, work it to your advantage. I’m certain you’ll find a way, Josie, you always do.” Leliana replies, touching Josephine’s foot with her own. “That aside, we really ought to figure out a solid group of escorts for her when she goes out to meet these nobles. We can’t always have Madame Vivienne with her. And she still needs two other people. I would say Cassandra, but I think we all know why I don’t.”

“It’s a work in progress, I assure you.” Josephine leans out the window to wave. “I’m considering Cole. No one notices him, anyway. And it’s like the two have their own secret code.”


	103. Chapter 103

“I will not lose her. Do you understand me? _I will not lose her_.”

Cullen just looks at him like he’s something sad and they are talking about her _life_. You can’t undo taking a life.

“I know you care for her, Dorian. We all do, but – that is not her any longer.”

“I love her.” Dorian snaps, and his skin feels hot and burning and he wonders if this is how she feels whenever she uses her mark to close – if this is how she _felt_ \- “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming here it’s that if you love someone you _don’t give up on them,_ _Commander_.”

Cullen flinches and she was important to all of them, they all loved her and she loved them and despite the fact that they have almost died multiple times on this long shot of a crusade it is perhaps the happiest Dorian has ever felt in his life.

And possessed or no, Dorian is not giving up on the woman who never gave up on him.

She trusts him. Him, a Tevinter altus who argued with her over slavery. She trusts him and he isn’t going to -

He refuses to disappoint another person he loves.

Not her. Not today. Not ever.

“There are ways to fix possession. She’s in there. Somewhere. She’s strong.” Dorian says. “You know this. You should know this better than anyone. I will not let you _kill the Inquistor of Thedas_ and my best friend just because you gave up on her.”

Dorian will fight for her because she can’t argue for herself right now and this is what friends do.

Even if she tries to claw his face off – again – because _this is what friends do_.

“Dorian.” Cullen says and Dorian has had enough of this because if he’s the only one who’s going to defend her _fine_. He’ll go up against all of them. Bull. Cassandra. Cullen. Varric. Sera. _Solas_. All of them. And he’ll _win_.

He made her a promise.

Dorian Pavus of Minrathous _does not break promises_.

He feels fire in his hands and it makes his jaw ache with how hard he’s grinding his teeth together because he doesn’t understand how they do not understand that _they cannot kill her_.

A hand touches his shoulder and he is _not in the mood -_

“Dorian.” Cole says. “Wake up.”

Dorian sits up gasping for air and he can smell smoke but there is no fire. His hands are hot. Dorian looks down and he’s burned his sheets.

Andraste.

Dorian closes his eyes and breathes. There’s a crick in his neck and the air is cold.

“She’s safe.” Cole says, and for once Dorian is so very, very glad that Cole barged in without knocking. Dorian stares at the ceiling. “Not possessed. Still her. Burning bright. A beacon. Calling us home. Calling them, too. But burning so bright they can’t ever reach her. Only us. She burns bright but like stars she gathers us. She’s safe. You are safe. No one in these walls is going to kill her. Not Cullen. Not Cassandra. No one.”

Dorian breathes and his heart aches as it expands.

“Do you want to see her? She isn’t in her room. She fell asleep on the roof. Both of us counting the stars that gather in the sky and whispering their names so they don’t forget.” Cole says. “But she won’t freeze because I was up there with her and I brought her blankets that Skyhold wanted to give her but had no arms to embrace her with.”

“Yes.” Dorian breathes. “I want to see her.”

-

“Should I ask what you’re doing, Poppy? Or just leave you to it.” Varric says, when he walks into the rotunda and sees Lavellan arched on the floor. She seems to be looking underneath Solas’ desk, but she has a very odd way of doing it. She springs up like a reed that was pushed down and turns to him, frowning.

“I have lost hahren’s seed and am attempting to find it.”

Varric isn’t sure if he wants to know.

“It is small and white.” She says. “And I was supposed to study it.”

“Seed as in tree?”

“Seed as in tree.” She confirms and Varric doesn’t know if she is even aware of how odd she can make things sound. He thinks he’ll just settle on being relieved she didn’t mean the other kind of seed that’s small and white.

She looks around. “It is old and rare. And I lost it. I am attempting to find it. It can’t have gone far. It has no legs.”

Lavellan makes circles with her fingers and peers through them. He wonders if that actually helps her see better.

“Do you want help?” He asks because it’s either this or pay bills and there’s always time for that later. Also. The Seeker is on a war path about _something_ and Varric doesn’t want to get in her line of sight. He’d rather not be a target for her vented frustrations. Not today, at least.

She might actually take his head off.

“Yes.” She says. Still making circles around her eyes with her fingers. “You use a crossbow. Maybe your eyesight is better than mine.”

“I highly doubt that.” She can see in the dark, after all. “But who knows? Being closer to the ground than you has to be worth something.”

“It means you get all the cool air when it is hot.” She replies. “That’s what Vivienne told me.”

“Well. She’s not wrong.” Varric snorts. “But at Skyhold that’s a lot of cold air.”

“This is true.” Lavellan says. “The seed is small and white and thin. Like a grain of rice, but perhaps a little teardrop shaped? And a smooth to the touch.”

“Well that blends in with the floor quite nicely. You sure you didn’t step on it?”

“Yes, because I have not moved my feet since I dropped it.”

That explains the odd way she was looking underneath the desk.

“Alright.  You sure _I_ didn’t step on it?”

Lavellan hums.

“Probably.”


	104. Chapter 104

“I dreamed you left.” Cullen wakes up and it’s still dark out, he doesn’t even remember climbing up the ladder to go to sleep. Last night. This morning?

“What?” His mouth tastes foul and he’s sore all over. He doesn’t want to think about how this means he’s getting old – for a soldier. A voice in his head that sounds a lot like his sister the last time he saw her in person for her to yell at him says that he’d never be like this if he just stayed a farmer. A voice that sounds a lot like the Warden Commander’s says that he’s got a job to do. So he might as well do it proper.

“I dreamed you left. You looked really happy.” There’s a faint and dim light – the mark, green and dulled. She’s bound the mark in some cloth.

That answers how she’s been so good at hiding when her hand is a literal beacon.

She’s much clever than anyone gives her credit for.

“What?” Cullen raises his head and she’s perched at the end of his bed, on the corner farthest him and he can’t see her face. Can’t see much, really. Despite the fact that his ceiling is literally the starred skies themselves.

“You quit.” She says and her voice sounds weak. As if it were ink and someone put in too much water. Wisps and threads. “You didn’t even take anything with you. You left all your armor and things behind.”

He still can’t see her, but he has a feeling that she’s turning away. Looking elsewhere.

“I didn’t know you.” She says, voice getting softer. “Everything that I know is here. But you were leaving everything I know here and leaving. You didn’t even take your coat. I didn’t know you. It wasn’t you. But it was because there was someone else in the tower and the roof was patched and all your things were put away. I didn’t like it. But you wouldn’t stay and I couldn’t make you because it wasn’t you, not really, and everything I did would have worked on you, but it wasn’t, because you were packed away and you were walking out of Skyhold without even your coat and you didn’t say goodbye.”

It takes Cullen a few moments when he’s fully awake and ready to understand what Lavellan says – words change meaning mid-sentence, topics and themes shift, and tones fail to reflect the gravity of a concept. But he’s still mostly asleep and tired and her words have the same cadence as a trickling stream, calling him to sleep.

“I would say goodbye.” Cullen manages to say. Start with the easiest bits first. “And I wouldn’t leave without a coat. I’d freeze.”

“You took _a_ coat. It wasn’t _your_ coat.” She says.

Lavellan has strange concepts of belongings and self and Cullen needs to be fully awake for this, really. He sits up, and his limbs are still heavy and awkward with sleep and the bone deep ache of war.

“I wouldn’t leave.”

“You would if you got angry.” She says. “If you didn’t like it here anymore. Or if you got tired.”

“I still would not leave even then.” Cullen says.

“You almost left.” She whispers and this time he catches a glimpse, a flash, of her eyes. “Because of the lyrium.”

Cullen swallows and his hands curl reflexively.

“That – that’s not the same.” Cullen says. “That was for the good of the Inquisition. I wouldn’t have left because I wanted to.”

“But you _did_ want to. And that was for us, but what if you left for you. I wouldn’t – “ Lavellan fidgets and he can barely feel her weight on the bed.

“It was a dream, Inquisitor.” He says. “I am not leaving. You’d have to kick me out, I’m afraid.”

“But if you want to leave – “

“I don’t.”

“But if you _do_  – “

“I will tell you. I will discuss it with all of you.” Cullen says, holding out his hand for her. Her hands are thin and bones and birds – perhaps he spends too much time listening to Cole talk – in his. Cold. “I wouldn’t just leave. And even if I did go – it doesn’t mean I’m gone forever. You could write. I’m sure Leliana would deeply enjoy mailing me all sorts of odd things. You could visit. I’m sure it isn’t as though I’d disappear off the face of this earth.”

Her hands are birds, cold and thin and sharp, in his palms. He holds them carefully until they soften.

“You’d say goodbye?”

He rather thinks she’s had enough partings without goodbyes. He has, too.

“Of course.”

She breathes in deep.

“Goodnight, Cullen.”

“Goodnight, Inquisitor. I will see you properly in the morning and we are going to have another talk on propriety and boundaries.”

-

“She found _griffons_.” Cassandra yells and everyone in the tavern goes still before making a mad scramble for the exit.

Cassandra is _seething_.

Blackwall winces and Krem pats him on the back before jumping over the table and out a window.

“In my defense, I thought they were extinct.” Blackwall says as Cassandra glares at him from across the room like some sort of wrath demon. “How was I to know that she’d find one?”

“Not just _one_ , Blackwall.” She snaps. “Griffons. Plural. _Multiple griffons_.”

Bull is the only one left aside from Tabot and both of them just _look_ at him.

No help from there.

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Convince her _not to catch them and bring them to Skyhold_.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Blackwall says. “Besides. She doesn’t catch things. Things see her and then follow her out of curiosity. Then they nest near her. Isn’t that how we got half of the Inquisition?”

Bull snorts and holds up his ale in agreement.

“Convince her not to bring them to Skyhold. We don’t have room for a flock – a herd – _a group of griffons_.”

“I don’t think I could convince her to do anything.” Blackwall isn’t here to do any sort of convincing. “You could try Solas or Dorian. They’re good at convincing her to do things.”

“ _Dorian_ is excited to study these griffons. Solas is _curious_.” Cassandra grinds out. “They want the griffons at Skyhold. In fact they’ve convinced her that she _needs_ to bring them to Skyhold.”

“And I’m somehow supposed to argue against her best friend and her teacher?”

“You started this.”

“Well I’m not ending it.”


	105. Chapter 105

“They presented her with gold roses and I don’t think she’s ever looked so _confused_ and _insulted_ in her life. In fact, I’m willing to bet money she was so confused that she didn’t even know how to do anything else other than that routine fake show of gratitude Vivienne and Josephine have been drilling into her head since day one.”

“I thought it was a thoughtful and lovely present. Everyone knows she likes flowers.” Josephine says as Varric helps her sort out their finances. He’s the only one here with a head for business and the capability to handle this sort of thing without trying to jump out a window.

“Yeah, when they’re not covered in metal.” Varric says. “Pretty and expensive they are, but they aren’t exactly conveying the message she normally thinks of when she gives flowers. As someone who’s sat through her ramblings on flowers more than once, I can tell you that for certain.”

“And what _is_ her stance on flowers?”

“Symbols of the beautiful and ephemeral nature of life that must be cherished and released, loved and lost in order to be fully appreciated. Dipping them in gold is probably flying in the face of all of that. I don’t know. Sparkler’s trying to convince her that she hasn’t been threatened and that she doesn’t need to pack up and run for the hills.”

“She wouldn’t actually run would she?”

“She’d make a good head start before Dalish and Bull catch her and distract her enough to get her back.” Varric says. “In the mean time, better put those roses somewhere she won’t see them. Along with the rest of the stuff she doesn’t seem interested in.”

“Sera’s room?”

“Sera’s room.” Varric confirms. Josephine sighs.

“It seems such a shame. They’re so beautiful.”

“You could keep them for yourself.”

“I _couldn’t_. They’re hers – “

“And she’d be happy to give them to you. She’d pretty much give you the clothes straight off her back if she thought you wanted or needed them.”

“Her shoes especially.” Josephine laughs. “Still. It isn’t proper of me.”

“Since when has anything in the Inquisition been proper? You have an apostate painting the walls of the castle, a Tevinter yelling at your scholars about library organization, a Qunari mercenary acting as body guard for a _Dalish_ Inquisitor, and a fake Warden carving rocking-griffons for orphans.”

“Yes, but there are – there are certain protocols you _should_ follow.” Josephine says. “And one of them is not taking things from the leader of your organization when those things were specifically gifted to her as signs of goodwill by visiting dignitaries who could be possible patrons and allies in the future. It’s just all in poor taste.”

“Look, ruffles, just take them. You like them. She doesn’t like them. They’re some damned nice flowers. Treat yourself to something nice for once, would you? I mean – whenever we get gifts of ale and wine and shit do you see her hoarding it to herself? No. Dorian gets first pick because he hovers like a vulture and then Vivienne spirits some away because those two are in a weird rivalry, and then the rest of it goes to the tavern. Does she ever save a single drop of it just for herself? No. Whenever we get cloth or leather or what-have-you, does that go straight to her? No. She hands it off to the craftsmen and forgets about it. She won’t mind you taking the gold roses.”

Josephine sighs.

“You want her to give them to you straight? Pretty sure we could get her to do that.”

“I’ll take the roses, Varric.” Josephine says, “But as far as the Duchess is concerned, they aren’t the same roses she gave Lavellan.”

“My lips are sealed.”

-

Lavellan is a sleepy drunk. Which is to say that she’s more prone to falling into strange positions and sleeping at the drop of a coin than she normally is. Otherwise she is very much the same, strange, lovely, and oddly charismatic elf she is fully awake and sober.

Lavellan is a sleepy drunk who climbs to the highest places or burrows into the oddest corners to sleep.

And she is terrifyingly good at it. For someone who’s drunk it seems like her hand-eye coordination is only getting _better_.

Cullen attempts to coax Lavellan down from the rafters of the tavern while Cole watches.

“She isn’t coming down.” Cole says. “She feels _safe_.”

“And I would feel that she is much safer on the ground.” Cullen replies. “Where she can’t fall and crack her head open.”

Someday it will be Cullen getting drunk – unlikely, he’s a rather morose drunk and he’d rather not have to lose face in front of the force he’s supposed to be in charge of. And chances are no one will let him live it down. Krem and Dorian are already on his case for being _brooding_. – and someone else will be dealing with wrangling their more eccentric allies under control. That day is clearly not today.

“Please, Inquisitor. You will hurt yourself. You are drunk.”

Lavellan just curls around the wooden rafter beam and rubs her face against the wood. Cullen winces.

“I dusted.” Cole says. “She won’t get dirty.”

That is really not the biggest concern here.

“It reminds her of trees.” Cole says. “She carries her home with her but for a long time she carried it through forests that blot out the sky and branches that hold you like mother’s arms. She sleeps miles off the ground where it is safe from the wild things and she tucks herself under bushes like the rabbits people name her because the rabbits survived this long somehow. She knows how to be safe when she is weakest.”

There’s a knot in Cullen’s chest that twangs with Cole’s words.

“Yes. Well. For the peace of everyone else’s minds. Come down.”

Lavellan mumbles something that could be elven, could be Ferelden, could be Orlesian, might actually be Tevinter, and then _slides off the rafters_.

Cullen swears that his heart jumps into his mouth but _somehow_ she lands perfectly on her feet, then proceeds to lie down on the floor and curl up with her head pillowed on her folded arm.

“That’s as good as I’m going to get isn’t it.” Cullen says.

“Compromise.” Cole says. “Cures all concerns.”

Cullen sighs.

“Will you stay with her?” He asks Cole because he’s still got to get Rylen away from the cards table before Josephine joins in and then he’s got to figure out a way to get Cassandra not to get drunk after that.

“Will _you_ stay?” Cole says but when Cullen turns around Cole is gone and when he looks again so is Lavellan.


	106. Chapter 106

“She kisses you because she wants to. But they kiss you because they want you. She wants you, too. In a different way. And when she kisses people it’s because she loves them and cares and you love and care, too, but when you kiss people it’s different.” Cole says, curled up all bones and pale skin next to him. “Desire and heat and things that don’t necessarily have to be in the dark.”

“A kiss isn’t always a kiss.” Bull says and he looks at the spirit with his good eye and he doesn’t want to talk about this.

Cole is long gangly scarecrow limbs and red spots and lank hair and floppy hats. He’s gentle words and child awe and he’s some kind of strange youth that Bull feels better thinking about and gets scared to all hell for. He’s the Kid Varric calls him and it’s a different kind of youth than the Inquisitor’s because for all that she’s young and naive he knows that part of that is an act for them and most of it is just cultural difference.

There’s a distilled quality to her that will always be bright and intangible things but this is Cole and Cole is never going to lose a single bit of child clearness no matter if he’s made flesh or not.

Cole doesn’t get dampened or tarnished, he doesn’t dim or flicker. Cole is the Kid. Always.

Bull doesn’t think he’s the right person to be talking to Cole about the types of love -

“Desire. Not love.” Cole mutters under his breath, long fingers wrapped around his feet as he curls up small. “She loves you. She desires no one.”

“Right.” Bull says. “A kiss isn’t always a kiss.”

“But it is always a kiss.”

“Not the same kind of kiss. Varric writes love stories. And he’s sort of adopted you. Why don’t you ask him about it?”

“You kiss a lot of people. And a lot of people kiss you. You’d know better.” Cole replies. “She says we should always ask the expert if we want to know about something.”

Bull hums.

“I’m probably not the person to explain it to you, though.” Bull says. Because he knows all about desire but love is a dangerous thing that he tries to avoid. Granted he hasn’t been particularly successful at it but it’s still something he’d rather not talk about.

Cole is very quiet before he says.

“Love is always love even when it hurts and turns into a sword aimed at your heart, it is still love and love isn’t always beauty and roses – sometimes it’s saying _this is not you_ and it’s being gentle because someone deserves it.” Cole says. “I’ll ask her.”

“Well. If you want to know about love, the Boss is probably the best person to ask.” Bull says.

Lavellan _seems_ to love a lot of things and people. She doesn’t. She is _kind_ and _accepting_ to a lot of things and people. She gets attached and builds relationships – friendships, apprenticeships, acquaintance – with a lot of people – animals, too. She takes care of people and she listens and she learns them and knows them inside out.

But there are only a few people she _loves_. Bull knows that. She doesn’t fuck around when it comes to love. She takes it seriously. That girl – her love makes her dangerous. Bull’s only caught glimpses of it, scratched the surface of her love, and it already makes him damn scared down to his bones. The things her love is made of.

Lavellan knows love and all its forms, breathes them.

“Yes.” Cole says. “But a kiss is still a kiss. Even when it isn’t a kiss. Even when it is a dream, a hand, a cage, and a name.”

-

“Is something wrong, Josephine?”

She looks up, startled. And the Inquisitor looks at her, worried, small mouth turned into a frown.

“You’re late for dinner.” Lavellan says, then holds out a plate to her. “I brought it to you – I – are you unwell? I can get a medic, for you. If you’d like.”

There’s an alarming pain in Josephine’s neck and that’s what she gets for falling asleep at her desk – comfortable to sit in this chair may be, and perfect for writing this desk, but it really isn’t meant for sleeping.

Josephine yawns and there’s a familiar unsettling headache that comes from oversleeping clinging to her head.

“I’m sorry. I – I can’t believe it’s this late already.” Josephine glances out one of the narrow windows, slowly sitting up – is she getting old? Her back hurts. That’s normal for falling asleep at a desk, though, isn’t it? “Thank you, Inquisitor. I must have – I can’t believe I dozed off.”

Lavellan still looks worried, gently setting down the plate – overflowing with food and Josephine wonders if Lavellan picked it all out herself or if people kept adding to it for her. It could go either way.

“You didn’t have to.” Josephine says as Lavellan frowns at her.

“You weren’t there.” Lavellan says. “Are you sure you’re well?”

“Proper rest should take care of it. I promise.” Josephine says.”Did you eat, your worship?”

“I did.” Lavellan says, shoulders easing into something less tense. Her mouth lingers on unhappy. “You should take some days off. Cullen does.”

Josephine almost snorts a laugh.

“Only when Cassandra forces him and takes away the ladder.”

Lavellan’s lips crack into a smile.

“He’s secretly relieved to be doing it.” Lavellan peers down at the letters Josephine fell asleep on. “Your writing is very pretty even when you fall asleep writing it.”

Josephine looks down and it’s not nearly as neat as it should be and -

“Do I have ink on my face?”

Lavellan looks at her and squints. “I don’t think so. I mean. Even if you did, it wouldn’t be so odd. I have ink on _my_ face, too.”

Josephine laughs. “That’s a different sort of ink!”

“Well. No one would laugh at you because I wouldn’t let them.” Lavellan says. “Please take some time off, Josephine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you separated from this desk or your clipboard. And you worried Leliana.”


	107. Chapter 107

It takes Cassandra all of five minutes to do what Dorian has been trying to do for the past half hour.

She marches right up to the tree, looks up, and says, “Get down.”

And that’s all she has to do to get Lavellan to jump out of the tree and stand at attention. Cassandra looks the elf over, dusts some leaves off her shoulders, nods in approval, and walks away.

Dorian has tried bribes, pleading, ordering, almost begging, threats, attempts at emotional manipulation along the lines of – what would Josephine say – before giving up and calling for someone she actually respects to get her down.

With luck she won’t be late for her meeting and he won’t be getting anyone breathing down his neck for failures to corral their wayward Inquisitor. As if _he’s_ supposed to be the one in charge of her. Really. He barely has his own _life_ under control and they want him to try and getting her to follow any sort of understandable schedule?

He’s a _mage_ not a _miracle worker_. There is only so much you can do when one is dealing with – well. _Her_.

“I don’t know if I feel deeply insulted or not.” Dorian says as they link arms – it’s the only way he’s guiding her _anywhere, really._ Bull tried a make-shift leash,once, and it only ended up in property damage, Josephine almost fainting, which was really the most important thing there.

“Why?”

“You listen to Cassandra and not me.”

“I listen to you.” Lavellan says. “I just don’t necessarily follow through on what you say.”

“Every time you open your mouth your words lance through my heart.”

“That’s silly, if that were true you wouldn’t have a heart left.” Lavellan laughs. “And that would be very odd because I don’t think anyone can live without a heart. It’s a vital organ, isn’t it?”

“Back to the original point at hand – why do you listen to her and not me? I have a much lovelier voice and a better way of saying things. Also you love me more, it’s only reasonable that you should listen to me more. Ha. I say reasonable as if you _were_ reasonable.”

“I do listen to you, though.” Lavellan protests. “But Cassandra’s different. She’s like a _hahren_. Like Josephine and Solas. You’re like a _da’len_. We’re the same.”

“I’m older than Josephine and you’re calling _her_ an elder before me? Preposterous.”

“It’s not about age. It’s about – “ Lavellan waves her free hand. “Her aura?”

“Her _aura_.” Dorian repeats.

“Yes. Her _aura_.” Lavellan says, apparently proud to have found the word for what exactly she respects in a person. Their _aura_. “It’s a very respectable aura.”

“I have a respectable aura! Probably!”

“Yes – but in a _different way_.” Lavellan pets his arm. “I love you all the same, but you have to admit that when Cassandra tells you to do something, something inside of you starts panicking about what’s going to happen if you don’t do it. I just don’t get that from you or Sera or Cole.”

She has a point there.

“Will there ever be a day when I achieve that sort of aura?”

“For someone else, probably. But I don’t think you’ll ever be _my_ hahren.”

“Best friend, favorite companion, – according to the rumors, illicit lover –, and hahren would obviously be too much. I suppose I must give everyone else a chance.”

-

“You’re a child.” Krem declares.

“I’m not.”

“I feel like this conversation has been had before.” Sera says out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, but it was between Dorian and Cullen.” Dalish replies. “Now it’s Krem and Lavellan.”

“Barely twenty summers.” Krem repeats. “A child.”

“That’s plenty old!” Lavellan waves her hand. “Tell him, Dalish!”

“For us it’s old.” Dalish says. “We live in the middle of the woods with shems coming to hunt us in every direction. Trust me when I say getting to twenty without serious injury is near miraculous. She hasn’t even had a baby.”

“Exactly!” Lavellan says, turning back to Krem. “I haven’t even had a baby. I should’ve, by now, but I was getting around to it and by getting around to it I mean postponing it for as long as possible. Then the Inquisition happened. And now I consider all of you my adopted babies.”

“You are a child, you can’t be having us as babies when – “ Krem presses his thumb to his forehead. “Maker. Your worship you make my head hurt something awful sometimes.”

“I’m sorry but really I’m not a child.” Lavellan reaches out to rub Krem’s temples. “I mean. I got my marks. Granted they were rather fresh when I joined the Inquisition but the point is I earned them.”

“And they suit you wonderfully.”

“Thank you!”

“Led by a child.” Krem mutters. “Led by _children_.”

“What does that make you?”

“Older and wiser than you.” Krem says, flicking her forehead. “A lot wiser. Probably wiser than the Chief. Not as wise as Grim.”

They all turn to Grim who shrugs.

“You figure that if anyone’s that quiet they’ve got to be sitting on something huge.” Krem says. “Personally, I’m betting on former royalty.”

“Bull says chieftain.”

“Yeah, but he’s got more of a refined air to him, y’know?”

-

“That’s not a dog.”

“Can I keep him? Just until he feels better. Please?”

“Normally we kill wolves.”

“Those are angry wolves who attack us first! He’s hurt! Please? _Please_? He’s got nowhere to go and I think he’s lost his pack and I’ve taken care of wolves before also you can’t kill a wolf that doesn’t try to hurt you first it’s Dalish tradition because Fen’Harel won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt him, please, please, _please_?”

“This is worse than the dogs.”

“Hahren! Convince them to let me help the wolf until he’s better? Hahren?”

“You know – I don’t think I’ve ever seen Chuckles that red before. You alright there? Did your face break from laughter?”

“Hahren! His _health_ is at _stake_!”

“So is Solas’ if he keeps laughing like that.”

“It’s probably worth it to keep the wolf if we get to see Solas like this all the time.”

“Hahren? Are you alright? Hahren!”


	108. Chapter 108

“Left! Left! _Other left!”_ Dorian yells out, and Lavellan skids around the corner, almost falling down completely but apparently living in the woods does something for you when it comes to running for your life in terrifyingly old ruins because she just _picks up speed_ and Dorian – if he had breath in his lungs – would sigh in relief. Instead he just follows after her and hopes that Cassandra and Bull haven’t fallen too far behind.

Honestly, if those two are going to train so much they should at least be able to outrun _Dorian_.

Lavellan is a hurricane in a little elf body and thus is exempt from all rules of logic and Dorian forgives her for being able to run so damned fast.

“Told you we shouldn’t have disturbed the ruins.” Lavellan says. “I _told you_.”

“It wasn’t even on _purpose_.” Dorian says. “How was I supposed to know that stepping just so would summon crazed possessed bodies?”

“Less talking more running.” Bull yells at them. “Dorian, which way?”

Because Dorian has the map and Dorian is apparently the one who’s good at multitasking banter, running for his life, navigation, and setting things on fire to light the way. They don’t train you for this sort of thing in school. He’s actually astounded he hasn’t gotten them killed yet.

“Straight.”

“There is no straight!” Lavellan yells from where she’s clearing the way up ahead.

“There has to be!”

“There is no _straight!”_ She shrieks and Dorian swears when he gets close enough to see that she’s right. Where there should be a straight path towards the exit there’s a large mound of crumbled rocks.

“Move!” Cassandra bellows and Dorian barely throws himself aside in time to dodge Cassandra charging like an enraged bull or _dragon_. Lavellan yelps and flattens herself against a wall and Cassandra slams herself into the rocks. A few seconds later Dorian hears Bull saying -

“What the hell. Move, Seeker! You’re gonna need more bulk to get through that shit!”

Cassandra moves aside and looks like she’s ready to ram the rocks with another go before Bull comes charging in and slams the rocks with his hammer.

There’s a very loud _crack_ and rumble and between Cassandra’s charge and Bull’s swing they’ve managed to cause a mini-rockslide and a small, but widening gap, at the top of the rubble makes itself known.

Bull and Cassandra grab Lavellan by her arms and fling her up.

Then they grab Dorian by the front and throw him up after her.

Lavellan scrambles down the other side of the rocks, Dorian following as Cassandra and Bull squeeze in.

“Move, move, move!” Lavellan says and as soon as Bull’s feet are on the ground she raises her hands – eerie green bright against Dorian’s eyes – as she lifts rubble with magic and seals the hole shut. “Let’s see them try and get through _that!”_

And of course, because they have the worst luck -

There is a very loud and angry sounding _thump_ from the other side and the rocks give a very frightening shudder.

“Let’s not push it.” Bull says, grabbing Lavellan by the neck, picking her up and running forward. “You said straight, right?”

“Straight all the way forward!” Dorian says, taking in a deep breath and running after him, Cassandra bringing up the rear. “And why couldn’t you carry _me_?”

“I like the Boss better.”

-

“What was the Hero of Ferelden like?” Lavellan asks.

Cullen thinks for a moment.

“Perhaps you should ask Leliana?”

“Leliana doesn’t like to talk about it.” Lavellan says. “She just tells me to go to the library if I want stories.”

Cullen inwardly snorts. Everyone knows that Lavellan knows all the stories in the library. Between Dorian, Solas, and Vivienne, Lavellan knows all of the stories that most people know and quite a few no one’s ever heard of.

In any event, Lavellan isn’t after stories. She’s after people. Memories. Experiences.

Lavellan likes stories. She loves people.

“I think that Leliana knows her better than I.” Cullen says. He still needs to apologize to her.

“But you lived in the same tower as her.” Lavellan says. “Aside from the things Leliana teases you with, I don’t know anything about her.”

The Inquisitor stares at him with wide eyes. “She’s an elf who saved _Thedas_.”

“A Circle elf.” Cullen says.

“Even if she wasn’t Dalish – she’s still an elf. And they don’t hate her or anything. They really like her. And she saved a Dalish clan! And – and she’s an honorary Paragon! And she’s lovers with the _King! And she has a mabari!”_

Cullen is faintly amused that of all those things Lavellan sounds and looks most amazed and excited by the dog.

Her fingers curl into fists and her face goes red and pink. Lavellan looks at him, waiting and Cullen thinks that his kindness today is because of his regrets of yesterday. He should have been kinder. He should have been more aware.

He should have protected his charges like he was supposed to.

“She was kind.” Cullen says and Lavellan leans forward. “And mischievous. Always up to something. Clever. And she could sweet talk anyone into anything. She had a tendency to use her charms to play tricks. But she was always kind. Even when she used her sharp tongue. I don’t think she was ever anything but kind.”

Afraid and lonely, too. But Cullen won’t say that just yet.

“She was like you.” Cullen says.

The ways that the Inquisitor and the Hero of Ferelden are similar are sometimes glaringly obvious and frightening. The ways that they are different are numerous as well. But it’s the similarities that jump out and steal Cullen’s breath.

He was so very cruel to her.

“Like me?” Lavellan whispers, awed.

He supposes that people like her – elves, magic, kind – do tend to get the short stick in most stories. Every history.

“Yes.” Cullen says. “Brave.”

He thinks of that phrase Lavellan mutters when she’s upset, or whenever she’s faced with a problem or something she doesn’t particularly like.

 _Never again shall we submit_.

“Unyielding.” Cullen says. “Indomitable.”

And because he doesn’t want her to get too many ideas -

“Stubborn as a mule.”


	109. Chapter 109

“Do you love them, sometimes, always, never, you think maybe?” Cole asks as she guides his hand to draw lines between stars.

“Who?” She asks.

“You like them but you don’t love them even though you are kind and they think you love them but you do not, you care for them, yes, always, you would die for them, yes, any time, but you do not love them. You only love some of them all of the time and you sometimes approach loving some of them the rest of the time but say _no_ and put them down, gently, like river stones and flowers. I don’t understand it.”

“Because you’re Compassion.” She says.

“Yes.” He says. Because he is not Love or Pride but Compassion and she is the Passion of, and he understands, feels, connects to her but he also knows it is not love that she feels and he wants to know why because they always say she is love but perhaps the better word is Loved. Cole thinks because he doesn’t know how to say things sometimes and sometimes he says it wrong especially when he needs to say it right.

Pride and the Passion of. He wants to get it right for them, especially for them because they don’t seem to understand how Loved they are and have been and always will be.

Like the lines between stars he can’t always figure them out on his own but he’s starting to learn that words can’t be guided all the time.

It is very _frustrating_.

Cole tries anyway because he can’t imagine _not tryin_ g.

“Love is a heavy word. Like kill and murder and sacrifice.” She says as they draw a boat with stars, her hand hard and warm around his wrist, arms outstretched like their fingers really are touching the sky. Like sticks in the dirt and drawings that are washed away by feet and wind and rain and time. “No. I don’t love them all. I care deeply for all of them. But I do not love them all.”

“You love Dorian.”

“Not at first. But slowly.” Lavellan says.

“But all love is slow.” Cole replies. She laughs. Stars and lines. Stars and the Passion of.

“You love – Solas?” It’s a different love, though. Cole feels it. Tastes it when he says the word, the name.

“Yes.”

“But not Vivienne.”

“No. I respect her, though. And I think she’d rather have that than my love, anyway.”

Cole nods even though she’s looking at stars since she always seems to just _know_.

“You do not love Leliana or Sera.”

“No. But I respect Leliana and worry for her. And Sera is my friend. I care for them deeply and I worry about them. But no.”

“You do not love the Iron Bull or his Chargers. Even though you sacrificed the Qun for them.”

“The Qun was never mine and so I did not sacrifice it.” She says. “The word sacrifice implies a loss. That’s why it is so heavy.”

“Sometimes you think you could love the Iron Bull like you love Solas. But not quite. It’s different.”

“Yes.” Lavellan says.

“But you put him down, gently. A little bit away.”

“Yes.”

“And there are names you don’t say out loud and you love them because they are you. He is you.”

“He is dead.” Lavellan squeezes his wrist. “And I love him.”

“And it is not the same kind of love as the way you love Dorian or Solas, or almost love the Iron Bull?”

“No. It is not. You don’t love the same kind of love twice.” She says. Stars shining beautiful and different a thousand different stories, no two words the same. Cole nods, slowly.

“And I love you.” She says. And he looks at her, and her eyes are like dark stars, the Passion of. She smiles and their arms lower from drawing in the sky like sticks to dirt. “Compassion.”

She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back. He thinks he smiles back because his face feels like it is doing something odd. And her smile grows wider, whiter, brighter. And she laughs.

Cole does not know if he loves her but she is brilliant and he wants to stay with her and with Solas and he wants to get the words for them and he wants to learn the words from Dorian and from Josephine and he wants to learn the way the Iron Bull is so good at making people feel better when he always feels hard and brittle on the inside and Cole doesn’t understand love and the Passion of but he wants to stay and learn and he wants to help.

“Thank you.” Cole says.

“Did you learn a lot?” She asks.

“Yes. I think. But I think I have more questions than I do answers.”

“Isn’t that how it always is, though?” She raises their arms and she starts to draw with his finger the lines between stars and Cole listens.

-

Her hand is damp against his, and he doesn’t think she’s ever been so nervous.

“You’ve been preparing for this for ages.” Dorian whispers to her, her free hand fidgeting with her folded gloves in her lap. Dorian is glad that they’re the only ones in this carriage. The rest have already gone ahead. “Darling, there’s absolutely _nothing_ to worry about. I mean, if you could charm _me_  – and I am notorious for my extremely high and exquisite taste – then you can charm anyone.”

“That’s different.” Lavellan says, gnawing at her lower lip. “You’re not like them.”

“No. I’m Tevinter. I’m a thousand times _better_. And more youthful. And _stylish_.” Lavellan just shoots him a look out of the corner of her eye. “You charmed Vivienne, and she’s like them.”

“It took me _ages_ to get Vivienne to actually like me, though.” She says, knees rubbing together as she resists the urge to kick. “And Vivienne is different, too. Vivienne isn’t – she grew up in the Circle. There are _elves_ in the Circles.”

“You charmed Solas. And he’s about as ornery and uncharmable as it gets. I’m fairly sure the only time he smiles is when he’s thinking about you, sleep, and perhaps making a fool out of someone. Usually me, but the things I do to make him slightly less annoying.”

Lavellan, oddly enough, doesn’t seem any less nervous despite his quips and that is something new.

Dorian squeezes her hand tighter in his, their fingers meshed together and knuckles bumping. Lavellan sucks in a nervous, rattling breath.

“You can charm anyone. I mean, from what I’ve heard, Cassandra was ready to cut your head off herself.”

“But that’s because she thought I killed the Divine and ripped a hole in the sky!” Lavellan bursts out, heel hitting the floor of the carriage with a loud _thump_ as she glances at him. “And she isn’t the same as – as. It’s not the same. This is the Empress of Orlais.”

“You didn’t seem too impressed to meet the King of Ferelden.”

Lavellan shivers. “That’s different, too. He’s different. He – he likes elves.”

Dorian narrows his eyes.

“And so does Celene, in a very similar manner, if rumor is to be believed.”

Lavellan’s voice is very, very quiet when she replies. “She burned down all the slums of Halamshiral. Because she could. To make a point. I don’t think I could charm her. I don’t think I _can_.”

She shivers and Dorian carefully switches hands so that he can pull her against his side.

“Do you know how many elves are in Orlais, Dorian?”

“No.”

“I don’t, either.” She shivers again. “A lot. I don’t want to find out.”

Dorian squeezes her shoulder. “So be mad with her, if you like. Just lie. Pretend.”

“But I’m not mad at her, Dorian.” Lavellan’s voice cracks. “I’m _scared_.”


	110. Chapter 110

“What is that?” Cassandra abruptly spins around, eyes pinning Lavellan. Dorian leans around her and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _What is that?_ What’s in your mouth? _Inquisitor_.”

Lavellan and Cole are crouched on the ground, and Lavellan’s eyes are large and wide, darting from Cassandra to Dorian to her fist which has a bunch of dark looking weeds in it. There are muddy roots sticking out of her mouth.

Cassandra makes a sound that Dorian is used to hearing from _steel striking flint_ and cracks something. Her neck, her knuckles, her spine. He’s terrified of the joints this woman is capable of cracking, popping, or otherwise flexing.

“It’s probably not dangerous.” Dorian says. “She grew up in the woods. She probably knows what to and what not to put in her mouth after picking it up off the floor. Probably.”

Cole is playing with the weeds and making them into what looks like a little doll.

Lavellan slowly chews, eyes still flicking from Cassandra and Dorian.

“Spit.” Cassandra orders.

Lavellan’s mouth slowly stops and her eyes rest on Cassandra.

This is all so incredibly fascinating and terrifying.

“ _Spit_.” Cassandra grinds out. “It. Out. _Now_.”

Lavellan slowly opens her mouth after what feels like a year long stand off and bits of chewed up weed fall out of her mouth.

Cassandra just continues to look at her until Lavellan’s fist opens and the weeds fall down.

“Stop putting things in your mouth.” Cassandra says, “We are in the middle of hostile territory and a day’s march from the last friendly camp. You cannot get poisoned. Do you understand?”

And because Dorian feels like he needs to say it, because someone needs to, and because Cassandra really doesn’t deserve the headache it will give her later if no one says it, and in turn, no one in Skyhold or all of Thedas deserves the brutality Cassandra will unleash after getting said headache, Dorian says -

“Also even if we _are_ in friendly territory surrounded in miracle cure alls you aren’t allowed to get poisoned.”

Cassandra crosses her arms.

“But it _isn’t_ poison.” Lavellan mumbles, “And I’m _hungry_.”

“Bull packed you _rations_.”

Cole and Lavellan exchange _looks_.

And in this moment Dorian is somehow reminded of Solas.

“We gave them to those peddlers a ways back.” Lavellan says. “They looked so hungry, Cassandra. And tired. They’d been walking for ages and I just felt so bad for them.”

Cole nods along and is apparently clever enough not to spill into one of his poetic sagas.

Cassandra takes in a terrifyingly long and deep breath through her nose. Dorian wonders if she’s joined Dalish or Solas in on their breathing exercises or if she’s preparing to start breathing fire like the dragon she probably is in secret.

Dorian wonders if he’s going to have to explain why their Inquisitor and their friendly spirit are _charred to a crisp._

He wonders if he could possibly somehow blame this on Bull. Or Varric. Or _Solas_.

Oh yes, he can definitely blame this on Solas somehow.

-

“They gave her a doll.” Leliana repeats, staring at Josephine.

“I thought you were monitoring all of the things that come in and out of Skyhold?”

“I didn’t realize that they would be giving her the _doll_. I thought it was for – I actually don’t know who I thought it was for. This is why I should never take the day off.”

“Well. They seemed to be under the impression that the Inquisitor is a child.”

“She’s _childish_ but she isn’t a child. How is she – receiving the gift?”

“Well.” Josephine laughs. “They were originally very embarrassed and reluctant to give it to her, seeing as their gift for me was a lovely chardonnay and for Cullen a magnificent scarf, and before I forget – for you. A beautiful quill.”

Leliana takes the quill, running a finger over the plume – it is very beautiful, she’ll test how it writes later.

“But she was quite pleased with it. Krem is helping her make new clothes for it.” Josephine says. “She’s taken the doll all over Skyhold. She’s never had a doll so fine, she said. She always wanted one when she was younger but. Well. You know – her background.”

Leliana imagines it’s hard to find porcelain faced dolls with silky hair in the middle of the forests of Thedas.

Josephine hums, “Would you like to try some of this before Dorian gets wind of what I got and comes in to steal it under the excuse of poison testing?”

Leliana sighs and drags a chair next to Josephine’s desk.

“I really have no idea how our lives have come to this point. I was just a humble bard once.”

Josephine laughs as she pushes away from her desk to get some glasses.

“She actually likes the doll, though?” Leliana asks as Josephine opens the bottle. She’s aware of the fact that Lavellan has begun to have a rather large collection of odd things – acorns, leaves, ribbon, buttons, seeds, stuffed animals. the odd rock or two – and a doll seems. Well. It shouldn’t be that odd, now that she thinks of it. It seems just eclectic enough to belong. Though considerably finer than the other objects in the collection.

“Yes, Leliana. She likes the doll. At least, better than most of the things people give her.” Josephine says. “Certainly much better than that idol of Andraste.”

Leliana snorts. The idol of Andraste didn’t go over well. Lavellan sort of stared at it before gently passing it off to Cassandra and wiping her hands on her trousers, then climbing out a window to go play.

It probably would have been more amusing if she didn’t do it in full view of the entire court.

“Does the doll have a name?”

“Not yet. But they’re making lists.” Josephine says. “I’m not quite sure what to put my money on just yet.”

“Are we truly so low on things that we’re betting on the name of the Inquisitor’s _doll_?”

“It’s been a slow week.” Josephine says. “A very slow week.”

 


	111. Chapter 111

“Do you ever wonder what she does by herself when there’s no one around watching?” Stitches asks, “I mean. She gets up to all of this stuff when we’re watching, it makes you wonder what she does behind our backs.”

“What, like she’s a kid with a lot of minders who does crazy things when the parents aren’t looking?”

They all turn to Bull who’s busy chatting up a barmaid and then turn to look out the window where Cassandra is working with some former Templars.

“Dorian and Vivienne are having their passive aggressive tea party.” Dalish says. “To which no one is invited because to invite anyone is to invite them to their grave.”

Skinner leans back and squints up the stairs. “The boy is here. I think.”

“He isn’t, the Chief went to check in on him about an hour ago.” Krem says. “Solas is out picking herbs or something. I think he went with the boy.”

“The Commander is speaking with some of the Warden liasons.” Dalish says, “I saw him when I was coming back from a meeting.”

“Why were you at a  meeting?”

“A Dalish meeting.”

“What Dalish meeting?”

“There are Dalish in Skyhold, you know.” Dalish rolls her eyes. “We get together and talk. Sometimes the da’len joins us. Sometimes not.”

“Sera’s upstairs.” Stitches says. “Experimenting.”

There’s a moment of shared silence as they wonder if the results of these experiments will end up in the tavern nearly being burnt down again or in something surprisingly useful.

“Blackwall’s making toys.” Skinner says. “Varric is doing paperwork.”

“The Ambassador is working at her desk – when isn’t she? S’probably not good for her eyes. Or her neck. Or her wrist.”

“Well. There’s the spymaster. She’s probably always watching. She’s got eyes on everyone. Don’t she?”

“True. But there’s got to be some moment when even those spies aren’t watching. Do they watch her when she’s inside Skyhold?”

“Yeah. Everyone is watching her when she’s in Skyhold. Half because they’re still new enough that her presence is like some sort of novelty and the other half because they’re so used to her that they’re terrified she’s gonna get hurt.”

Grim grunts, and points in the direction of some of the broken towers.

“Well. I highly doubt any of the Spymaster’s scouts can follow her in there.” Dalish says. “Not without alerting her and getting actively drawn into her chaos.”

“Which seems to defy the point of watching from afar.”

They fall into semi-contemplative silence.

“Perhaps it’s best that we ought not to know.” Dalish concludes. “It’s like wondering what your parents do when you aren’t around. You find out and then you wish you didn’t know because you never ever want to think of your parents doing that.”

“She _isn’t_  – “

“Same concept, different form of that.”

-

“This is all well and good but you’ve gotten punched in the face three times in the past half an hour and really, that’s one punch to the face every ten minutes and I’m not quite certain I want to have to explain this to – well. Anyone.”  Dorian says as he and Cassandra attempt to wrestle the _keg_ from Bull’s hands.

“She seems like she’s having a good time.”

“She _always_ seems like she’s having a good time. It’s only a matter of time before she gets _punched in the face_ though.”

“Well. It’s a good thing she knows how to take a punch then, right? And give one – “

And of course, at that very moment, _she punches someone in the face_.

Cassandra looks absolutely astonished and Bull breaks out into a wide grin. Dorian hits his head against the keg, repeatedly, muttering something that sounds like _why am I always here for this?_

“That’s my girl!”

Cassandra feels something like a headache forming. But larger. More ominous.

Lavellan is standing on a table with her fists up and she looks both confused and excited because half of the people are cheering her on and the other half are singing.

At this point she should be used to it. Lavellan.

Cassandra should never get used to this. Ever.

It says something that she started reacting – in the very beginning of the Inquisition – with complete fury and now only has an impending sense of dread and weariness whenever these things occur.

Either she is going soft or lax, or worse – she’s lowering her standard of acceptability.

“Her uppercut’s really getting to be something.” Bull says.

Cassandra has half a mind to uppercut Bull through a window. It’s not worth the effort. If she doesn’t do it hard enough he’ll just get up and start a fight with her. Laughing the entire time.

Her head is warning her that the impending headache is coming faster and faster. She won’t be in the mood to fight with it.

“Get her down.” Cassandra says to Dorian, digging into her coin purse to settle their tab. “Get her back to the inn.”

“Why is it always me?”

“Do _you_ want to deal with the Bull?”

Cassandra and Dorian both slap their hands over Bull’s mouth before he can say anything lewd.

“Point taken.” Dorian says, a certain slump to his shoulders as he turns to coax Lavellan off the table. “Come on, Inquisitor. We’ve got a reputation to uphold, something, something, something important.”

“But I was _winning_.” Lavellan whines as Dorian tugs on her leg.

“I know. I know. But sometimes you can’t get what you want and you have to lose, something about life lessons, think about Solas’ bright red angry face as he lectures you. Disappointment. Blah, blah, blah. People talking. Dorian has a headache and wants something proper to eat. Let’s go.”

“ _Fine_.” Lavellan sighs, jumping off the table and trailing after Dorian as Cassandra pries the keg from Bull’s hands and sets it down.

“You’re a terrible influence on her.” Cassandra says, yanking the Bull to his feet with one hand and placing coins on the table with the other.

“Nah. I’m better than most.” Bull says, swaying a little before walking towards the exit, leaning down a little and turning his head to the side to clear the doorway. “I mean, I’m not the one who’s got her learning the art of bondage.”

“The _what?”_ Cassandra purposefully walks him straight into a wall as Bull laughs at her.

“Your _face_ Seeker – your _face_.” Bull laughs, inappropriately loud for this late at night.

Cassandra hisses through her teeth.

“If it was the _dwarf_ I’m going to _destroy_ him.”


	112. Chapter 112

“I admit that this could have gone better.” Lavellan says and Cassandra slowly closes her eyes when the roof of a hut collapses behind them.

“The village’s abandoned, at least.” Blackwall says.

“Perfect place to fight Tevinter agents.” Varric agrees. “No one around at all.”

“Probably went running when they saw the guys in the weird helmets.”

“But overall I think we did rather well, don’t you? Please don’t look so upset, Cassandra. Vivienne says looking like that al the time is bad for your face. And you have such a lovely face.”

Varric almost laughs because she’s so damn sincere and worried looking. How does anyone react to that kind of face?

“Just get on the deer and let’s go.” Cassandra says and this is a definite change from when they first started doing this and the Seeker would nearly explode every time Lavellan put even a toe out of line.

Rants and lectures about _too dangerous_ and _not safe_ and _acceptable risk_ that he’s fairly sure went entirely over Lavellan’s head except for the tone of voice which meant _this is probably important_.

At least now she knows how to cut her losses and go.

Lavellan grins, bright and sunny like the Poppy flower he calls her and trots in the direction where they left their mounts.

“Not a word, dwarf.” Cassandra snaps at him as he walks by her.

“I have no idea what you mean, Seeker.” Varric says. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Was I?”

Blackwall ignores them both and goes to give the Inquisitor an unnecessary, but appreciated, boost onto her stag. He’s chivalrous enough to put the rest of them to shame sometimes.

“But now that I’ve been invited to speak – “

“You haven’t been – “

“I’d like to start by saying how much character growth you’ve shown over these past many, many months of trials and tribulations.”

“I will _sew_ your mouth _shut_.”

Blackwall and Lavellan snorts into their hands.

“You don’t know how to sew.” Varric points out. “And with what needle?”

He thinks he can hear her grinding her teeth.

“You shouldn’t be so mean to her, Varric.” Lavellan says to him as Cassandra stomps off to her own mount and Blackwall helps Varric up behind the Inquisitor.

Horses aren’t his thing.

“Cassandra is very stressed and responsible and we ought not to bother her.” Lavellan says as if that doesn’t fly in the face of everything she ever does. Then again, it’s not like Lavellan does it on purpose, so Varric supposes it isn’t very hypocritical for her to say that.

“On the contrary, Poppy. Getting her angry just lets her vent her frustration out on suitable targets.” Varric says. “Besides, if I didn’t annoy her she’d just be focused on the future and other things like that. Gotta bring her to the present, you know.”

Lavellan turns to Blackwall who wisely busies himself with getting on his own horse and pretending to look over his equipement.

Lavellan keeps staring at him until he gives in and sighs, giving a half-hearted nod because he obviously isn’t in the mood to argue against Varric.

“Hm.” Lavellan muses and Varric latches onto her as the hart lets out a scream and starts running. He still hasn’t figured out what she’s signaling him with seeing as she hasn’t even grabbed the reigns, but he figures it’s some sort of elven non-verbal communication. He could probably write Merrill to find out but he doesn’t think he’d understand her answer.

Lavellan is probably going to muse on this tidbit of knowledge a bit more, maybe talk it over with her mind link with her stag, or find someone from Skyhold to chatter about it with. With any luck she’s going to pick someone who’s going to concur with Varric.

-

“I’m in trouble, not that much trouble, but it’s still trouble, please hide me.” Sera can barely process any of that and then the blasted elf has gone and hidden behind some portraits leaning against a wall.

And because Sera is such a great friend -

“Your eyes are glowing, shut’m.”

The eyes look like a smile before disappearing.

Sera should probably ask who or what Lavellan is running from and what kind of trouble, but she figures if Lavellan didn’t come in here staff a swinging it’s probably something Sera can handle.

Just to be sure, Sera opens a window, bracing herself against the night air, and listens.

No one screaming, no sounds of fights, don’t smell no fire, and she can’t sense anything else that’d mean real trouble.

So it probably really _isn’t_ that much trouble. Granted Lavellan has a right _odd_ way of measuring _trouble_.

Sera slips a flash bomb into her pocket just in case.

She goes back to reading some messages she nicked from Josephine’s desk and waits.

A couple of messages and doodles on said messages later, Sera’s door flies open again -

“I really should get that thing rigged. You people need to learn to knock, yeah? I thought you’re all supposed to be civilized or something.”

“The Herald. Is the Herald here?” A scout wheezes and Sera feels a bit worried about the fact that he’s wheezing like that. Like, aren’t these people supposed to be in shape? The Inquisition needs to work on that. “It’s urgent.”

“Nope. Haven’t seen her.”

“She ran away from a marriage proposal.”

Sera almost, _almost_ reacts to that, but she’s better than that.

“Haven’t seen her. Probably won’t blame her either. Some of the twats that are proposing just look _gross_.”

The scout looks incredibly panicked.

“ _She was the one who proposed_.”

And Sera – Sera has to congratulate herself on her own self control, here – almost chokes, goes over to where Lavellan is hiding and rips her out of her hidey hole and throws her out a window while screaming. But she doesn’t because shock or something.

“She _what_?”

“You haven’t seen her?”

No one’s going to see her when Sera’s through yelling at her.

“No. I haven’t. Have you tried the baldy yet?  She’s usually the one she goes to when she fucks up.”

The scout sketches a harried bow before running.

Sera turns to the place where Lavellan was hiding and hisses when she sees Lavellan halfway out a window.

“I don’t fucking _think so_.”


	113. Chapter 113

“She’s easier to manage this way, at least.” Bull says, adjusting her in his arms. “A little cute, even.”

“Are you saying our beloved Herald isn’t cute even when she’s awake?” Varric asks as Blackwall lays lays out a pallet for Bull to lie her down on.

“Are you saying that you aren’t the slightest bit relieved that she’s not talking right now?” Blackwall returns.

And after an entire day of chatter, idle ramblings, and inarticulate yelling -

Well.

“Point taken.” Varric says. “But she was feverish and I think we should forgive her a bit for that.”

“Only a little feverish.” Bull says. “It’s gone now. Besides, she’s like that all the time. It’s refreshing to see her mouth somewhat closed.”

Lavellan’s face is mashed against Bull’s shoulder and there’s the slightest bit of drool but Bull really can’t blame her. He’s hot shit. Who _wouldn’t_ drool on him?

Bull slowly crouches and lets her down, careful so that she doesn’t accidentally fall. As soon as she’s safely on the ground she sprawls her limbs in every direction, stretching with a mumble, before hissing and tightening up into a little ball on her side.

Bull pets her hair, “Night, tiny and loud boss.”

This really isn’t what he imaged of her when he was getting ready to join up.

Varric sighs and takes off his coat, throwing it over her. “I’m getting old. It’s the only explanation for why I’m so soft.”

Lavellan curls and squirms until the only bit of her they can see from under the coat is her hair and her boots.

“Small things inspire that in people.” Blackwall says, and begins to gather up material for a fire. Varric highly doubts he’s going to find anything flammable seeing as everything is drenched.

It’s the _Storm_ Coast.

“Like a mascot?”

“Like a mascot.”

Bull hums, a deep sound that seems completely opposite of what Qunari make. Varric’s gotta admit, everything about the Iron Bull sends him for a loop. It’s not what he’s learned or come to expect from the grey giants.

Bull probably wants it that way.

“She’s more than a mascot.” Varric finds himself saying. Because it’s true. Mascots don’t run around mountains picking elfroot for healers and mascots don’t point at maps and say where to go and what to do, and mascots certainly don’t lead and maybe even win battles. She’s a powerhouse and she’s something that reminds him of Hawke. It’s completely weird and strange and it shouldn’t even be the same.

Lavellan is bright and gentle and breezy. She’s like Daisy but with this core of something _other_. Like two different types of bark or leaf or green thing. But still that kind of green thing.

Not the deadly green thing on her hand.

A different kind of green.

A home kind of green.

“She’s more than a mascot.” Varric repeats as Blackwall finally gets a fire going.

-

“So.”

“So?”

“How do you like the Inquisition so far?”

Sera stares at the dwarf. “Are you for real?”

“About as real as the rest of you, I figure.” Varric replies. “Look. I’m just trying to make sure  morale stays good. You know? So it doesn’t all go shit around us because we’re all too bitter to work together. The greater good of the world riding on our shoulders and all that.”

“It’s alright, I guess. Too much magic and shit for me, but whatever.”

Varric just looks at her and Sera raises an eyebrow.

“What? That’s what we’re all thinking.”

Varric shrugs.

“Some of us, yeah. Maybe. Not all of us. Look. You know that person they’ve got closing up rifts? The one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste?”

“The one with the distinctly pointy ears and weird tattoos? Yeah. I know her. I talked to her. Alright for a Dalish, I guess.”

“Yeah. That’s the one. This isn’t my first rodeo dealing with Dalish away from home and people in new countries and cultures. So it’s not that much of a stretch to say I’m doing this for her, too. She’s away from everything she really knows and feels comfortable around for the first time, surrounded in a bunch of people she’s been taught – and seen through vivid example – hate her and what she believes in and have been systematically destroying her race for as long as anyone can remember. She also just happens to be helping us because she wants to – and because she’s actually that nice. So yeah. I kind of want to help her in turn.” Varric raises an eyebrow at her. “I figure the least we can do is not – you know – insult her about what she believes in and talk down at her like she’s a twit.”

She believes in demons for gods, Sera thinks. She _is_ a twit.

She’s got fucking proof of Andraste on her _palm_.

“Look. Just give her a chance before you go around insulting her and stuff.” Varric says. “She might surprise you.”

“Whatever.”

-

“They are gentle kids.”

“One is a spirit and the other is the Inquisitor of Thedas.”

“They’re still gentle kids.” Varric repeats. “And sometimes kids should be kids.”

Cassandra privately agrees, but there is a time and a place for everything.

“We’re going to be late.”

“She’s the Inquisitor of Thedas. One of the perks of the job should be that she’s never late, just on time.” Varric says. “Besides, they look happy.”

They _do_ look happy. Cassandra crosses her arms and sighs.

Lavellan laughs as she tosses grass at Cole. Cole looks mildly confused but happy as he tosses grass back at her.

“This is fine.” Varric says. “Pull up some dirt. Relax. Stop frowning before they notice and get concerned.”

Cassandra sighs and lets her shield down, sitting in the shade. Josephine is going to have kittens, later.

Lavellan points and Cassandra follows her finger towards a bright purple butterfly. It lands on Cole’s hat. Cole gently takes his hat off and lowers it so they can both watch it.

“The world is full of many surprises.” Cassandra says. “In all my years I do not think I ever pictured myself sitting in a field of flowers with a dwarf, spirit, and Dalish mage.”

“That sounds like the opening to a very bad joke.”

“We _are_ a very bad joke.”


	114. Chapter 114

Such a fascinating age, this age of bleeding, Abelas thinks.

Time, magic, blood, knowledge – all of it bleeds through the fingers until nothing is left. Even the blood caught in the creases and grooves of skin will be lost.

There once was a time when nothing was ever lost. Water slipped through your fingers but it would return. A cycle of growing eternity and renewal. Their lives were not built on bones but on dreams. He likes to think it was a more beautiful time.

Anything has to be more beautiful than this glaring chiaroscuro of shem and People.

The well is empty and there is nothing left. Even that – purpose – has slipped from his fingers.

It is a very strange age.

Fen’Harel continues to walk this earth.

They called him _Pride_. Curious.

Fen’Harel was indeed proud – it was his right. He stood with Mythal and Elgar’nan. He stood with June and Andruil, Ghilan’ain, and Sylaise, the twins. It was his right to be proud.

They use the name _Pride_ for him and they do not treat him as he should. He is not dressed like the Dread Wolf Abelas knows.

Even Godhood, Abelas thinks, bleeds.

The Wolf looked tired. He looked ragged.  He looked beaten.

He wonders at this age that can reduce the great Wolf to something like that.

He wonders at where Mythal is now. Away from them. Perhaps she no longer needs them. Perhaps she never did.

She gave him purpose.

It is empty, now.

The Well of Sorrows cannot even take him, now that his time is slowly draining closed.

Everything moves too quickly in this age of bleeding. There are so many new things, there must be after all this time. But they have lost so much. He can feel that loss with every breath. Magic has been bled from this time. This age.

He does not begrudge those that call themselves _elves_ their lives. But they are not his people. His people are dead, forgotten, and lost.

The past has no right to intersect with the present or the future.

It is wrong.

They who call themselves the Dalish of this present have an existence that bleeds different than his own. A different rate, a different cut.

(Perhaps, his people have had a cut to the gut. Just deep enough to be fatal. But slow. Staggeringly slow. Painful. And so they watch as they lose everything, slowly. And perhaps these Dalish have suffered a cut to the neck. Shallow. Not fatal, but it can be if they aren’t careful. If they do not treat it properly, if they leave it so exposed. There is a chance to fail, a chance to succeed.)

They have made something out of the blood that spills from his loss and he will not take it from them.

These Dalish cannot survive the way his people have. And he doesn’t think his people could take the final blow of surviving as the Dalish.

In the end all he can do is pray to a goddess he isn’t sure listens anymore.

 _Let them live_ , he thinks. _Let them live._

Even if a single drop of elvhen blood continues – misinterpreted, diluted, and unrecognizable beyond belief – it would be enough. It has to be.

-

“Mahanon.” She says after a long, long silence that Cole can feel coming like the dawn, “Mahanon was the light of my life. The love of it.”

Cole is learning the taste-feel-sight-smell of loves and he knows from the way it drips off of her voice that she is talking about a kind of love that Cole has never seen-tasted-heard-felt before.

It’s not the same as the way Leliana feels when she thinks about the Divine, or the way Cassandra thinks about her brother. It’s not the same as the way the Iron Bull thinks of his Tama, or how Dorian thinks of Felix or his father. It’s not even the way Varric thinks of Bianca the person.

It’s something like Varric thinking of Hawke and Dorian thinking of Lavellan and Solas thinking of names Cole can’t understand because they are bigger than he is, so much bigger. It’s like Alistair thinking of a woman who’s face shines so brightly in his thoughts that Cole can’t see it. It’s like all of that and more, bigger. Sadder.

Heavier.

Bone and marrow deep.

So deep that even if she would let him, Cole doesn’t think he could make her forget that hurt. It would kill her, he thinks. It would kill her if she ever lost that hurt.

Her hands are knotted together between her dangling legs and Cole slowly reaches out and takes her hands in his and waits because from her he’s learned that silence can heal just as much as it can hurt and sometimes people just want to be heard.

Cole wanted to be heard. Compassion heard him.

Her breath shivers in the air between them.

“We grew up together.” She says and Cole can feel in between her words. And thinks of trees that get tangled up young and grow up big and strong, their trunks braids and their roots knots and their branches fingers. “I don’t know what to say about him because I never had to say anything about him. Because everyone who knew me before also knew Mahanon and everyone who knew Mahanon knew me.”

Cole thinks of the names that are bigger than him and he thinks of the name of Secrets and the name of Death and the name shared between them.

“We didn’t share blood.” She says. “I mean. Not any more than any Dalish shares blood. I miss him so much. He’s gone. He’s really _really_ gone.”

Her hands are fists and shake like bones and are pale like stars.

If this were Bull and his Tama, Cole would reach to find her. If this were Dorian and his father, Cole could stretch out and touch his mind. If this were Solas and the names bigger than Compassion, Cole could touch on the lingering afterimages.

But this is her, and this is a heart that stopped beating before Cole ever saw the mirror to him.

“But you are here.” Cole says because this he understands.

The dead survive through the living.

Cole and Compassion. Cassandra and everyone she carries on her back and Bull with every scar.

“Yes.” She says and it is a sound that rips out of the pit of her. “I am.”

“I am glad that you are here. I am sure that he was glad that you were here.” Cole tips his head to look into her red, scrunched face.

“I know he was.” She whispers. “But I wish it were him instead of me. I should have brought him with me.”

“And then he would wish it were you instead of him.” Cole says. “It is a circle, a cycle. And they couldn’t afford to lose the both of you. He would have wanted to go with you but you both knew one of you had to stay behind. He would have insisted it be him. For you.”

“He was stubborn.”

“He was you.”

“I was too stubborn. And selfish.”

“You are him.”

“I don’t know how to stop missing him. Because there are things to do and people hurting who need me but I’m hurting and I just need him.”

“You have us.”

“But you aren’t _him_.”

“And you aren’t him either. So you shouldn’t be acting like him right now.”

Lavellan’s little gasp is small and it hurts and Cole does not regret a single world.

“Mahanon always knew what to do.”

“But you always lead. Mahanon always followed.”

“You aren’t him.”

“No.”

“He’s not here anymore.” It sounds like a question. Cole squeezes her hands.

“No. I am sorry that it hurts.”

She cries. Cole listens. Compassion hears.


	115. Chapter 115

“She’s been playing with the babies of Skyhold for the past three hours and I am not referring to our large immature colleagues.” Krem says.

“She’s in the nursery?” Josephine repeats, dubious. Like Krem’s lying and hiding her inside a barrel or something. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. But Krem’s come up with better lies for worse things. He’s a little insulted but mostly amused.

“She’s in the nursery.” He confirms.

“We have a nursery?” Varric mutters to Dalish. Dalish just gives him a _look_.

“You do story time at the nursery.”

“So that’s why there are so many babies in one room.” Varric replies. “Huh.”

“She deeply enjoys being around children.” Seeing as she is a slightly larger child at heart. “And they like her. She also likes how babies smell.”

“Babies smell so lovely.” Dalish says.

Varric hums and shares a skeptical look with Krem.

Babies smell like small people and people don’t really smell all that great. Unless they’re fresh from a bath. And even then it’s doubtful.

Dalish rolls her eyes.

“Enjoy the babies for me.” Krem says.

“I _will_.” Dalish says like he’s just challenged her to a duel. For all he knows he might have.  He figures he’d probably get in a good shot before she got her _bow_ up and ready. Krem snorts.

“She’s in the nursery.” Josephine says. “And has been for the past three hours?”

Granted that the Inquisitor is unlikely to stay _anywhere_ for longer than an hour without making enough of a scene that she gets noticed by someone, Krem can understand her skepticism.

“And no one thought to tell me this when I asked everyone else in Skyhold?”

Krem shrugs.

He has no idea why she always comes to ask them last, seeing as the Chief has them watching her twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Someone among the Chargers _always_ knows where she is.

It’s just a matter of figuring out who.

And the Chargers are always _here_ when they’re not in the training ring or out on missions.

It really ought to be common sense by now.

-

“Dorian.”

And because she sounds oddly serious and composed, and because Dorian understands that this is going to be something important from that tone, and because he’s tired of reading about the properties of nug leather, and because he really has nothing better to do. Dorian allows himself to close the book, put it aside, and look at her.

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

If she were a bit bigger and a little more intimidating she’d fill up the space of his alcove but since she is not, she just looks oddly out of place pretending to be tough and whatnot while being so. _Her_.

“I have a very serious question for you concerning a woman’s genitals.”

Dorian thinks he sees his entire life flash before his eyes and takes a moment to wonder if this is a terrible nightmare and if he actually did doze off during that chapter of best ways on how to skin a nug. Or if he’s been poisoned again.

“What?”

“I need to ask you a question regarding women’s genitals. Not _a_ woman in specific, but women, in general. As in those who are not in the possession of a cock.” She says, each word crisp and completely unmistakable. And this is it, Dorian thinks. This is it. This is how he goes. This is how Dorian Pavus of Minrathous dies.

“Keep your voice down, would you? I don’t think the rest of Ferelden heard you on that one.” Dorian says. “Perhaps you ought to be asking Sera about women’s genitals.”

Lavellan blinks, momentarily put off before shaking her head.

“No. I have to ask a man. You.”

“You realize that I, though I am indeed a man and in possession of a cock, have no interest in a woman’s genitals and thus probably have a lot less experience in the area than Sera.”

Lavellan just stares at him. “I need to, specifically, as someone with a cock regardless of interest in people without cocks because it is a question concerning what people with cocks think of people without. Specifically shemlen.”

And there goes his hopes on foisting this off on Solas or Bull.

Dorian sighs. “Alright. Lay it on me. Let’s just get it over with.”

“Are men educated on how a woman’s monthly bleeding _works?”_

Dorian blinks, and squints at her. “Yes. Where I come from, generally yes. Probably not as well informed as women themselves, but generally speaking I do know the essentials of what a monthly bleeding is and such.”

“Is this standard knowledge for shemlen?”

“In Tevinter among my societal class, I suppose. I don’t think I can speak for the rest of the male population. Why?”

Lavellan hums, eyes slits.

“I am currently about to enter a cycle of bleeding.” She says and Dorian doesn’t exactly need to know this. “And I felt that prudent to mention considering our activities tend to be somewhat away from running water or suitable places to take care of such things. And in between various people turning bright red and not being able to look at me at all, there were some incredibly odd questions that led me to believe that no person in possession of a cock in this castle understands what is currently about to happen to my body and that Dalish men are a lot more intelligent on these sort of matters than I originally thought.”

“Leave it to the humans to lower the bar even further.” Dorian sighs.

“I can’t believe that this was never an issue when we were in Haven.” She crosses her arms, “But there was space and snow and water in Haven. And the Hinterlands. And the bog. And the coast. Cullen at least should be familiar with this sort of thing. Didn’t he live in a locked tower or something?”

Dorian snorts. “You make him sound like a fairy tale character. He wasn’t locked in that barbaric tower, love, it was _the mages_. And I’m fairly certain templar training did not involve discussion on a woman’s monthly bleeding.”

“Well it _should_.” Lavellan frowns. “Honestly. No one will even look me in the eye and all the ladies who heard me were _tittering_ and it’s not a big deal! It’s not like it’s a thing specific to me! Is it? Monthly bleedings aren’t specific to elves are they? Dorian?”

“No. They aren’t. But your openness probably is.”


	116. Chapter 116

“I was absolutely, completely, positive he’d be weeping in a corner with a bottle of liquor.”

“That’s mean.” Josephine says.

“That’s Dorian.” Leliana replies. “Over dramatic and incredibly entertaining even when drunk.”

“That’s still mean.”

“And that’s still Dorian.” Leliana offers Josephine a smile. “Besides, with the day he’s had, one wouldn’t be able to even blame him for it. There were times in my – more exciting years – when I would have for certain.”

Josephine guesses something about the Warden Commander of Ferelden, the Blight, and the vague stories she’s heard about the various companions and adventures that went along with that. Based on the rumors about them, Josephine wouldn’t blame Leliana either.

“One has to have a certain quality of mental fortitude to be able to stand up to the daily events of Skyhold.” Josephine concedes.

Sometimes she’s not even sure of whether or not _she_ has that quality of fortitude herself. Some days Josephine thinks she does, and is quite proud of it. And some days she thinks she’s getting there and can’t wait for it. And most days Josephine sits and bemoans the incredible tangle of knots and twists the Inquisition has taken her on because _there is no way_ she could have ever been prepared for any of this.

They definitely don’t cover torn Veils, elvhen ruins, dragons, and darkspawn in finishing school.

“If he were crying in a corner with some liquor I’d have joined him.” Leliana admits. “Not in the crying. Just the liquor.”

Josephine knows that Leliana’s been through worse than this – in Leliana’s opinion – in worse clothing. She’s even yelled it once, at a scout when her temper was fraying.

“I’ve been through worse situation in worse armor than this. I don’t _care_.”

Josephine really, really needs to learn more about Leliana’s time during the Blight. It was less than a year but somehow everything in that year trumps _everything else_.

Including but not limited to, demons raining from the sky, ancient Tevinter magisters brought back from the Black City, red lyrium, and a truly distressing amount of high dragons.

In Leliana’s words – in consideration to the dragons -

“Josie, once you’ve seen the Warden Commander in action, there is nothing that seems frightening anymore. Really.”

Based on the mutterings Morrigan and Cullen sometimes let slip in her presence about the Warden Commander, Josephine is inclined to believe her.

It’s a shame she hasn’t met said Warden Commander. She seems like a very interesting person to get to know.

Well. If she’s married to the King of Ferelden she probably must be. Josephine can’t imagine the woman – the elvhen circle mage – who defied the entire court of Ferelden and keeps Ferelden’s king on track and in line anything _but_ interesting.

-

Varric finds Lavellan in a river, lying on the bank with her legs flung into the stream.

“This river,” Lavellan deadpans when Varric stands over her, “Is the love of my life.”

“Your deer would be heartbroken.” Varric replies.

“Alright, maybe I was joking.” Lavellan amends. “He knows that.”

She splashes a little, rubbing her feet against the rocks of the river bed.

“Is this where you’ve been all afternoon?” Varric asks, it had been unusually quiet today. In that strange and off putting way.

“Well.” She says, pointing, “I was collecting samples for the scholars. Then I was brushing ma’vhenan’s pelt. He’s got some burs in it. And then I was practicing my Tevene. Then I went exploring again for more samples. But now I am tired and resting here.”

“It’s a nice place. Quiet.” Varric says, and makes note of the place for the next time they come here. He could send some flowers to Daisy, too. While he’s at it.

“Yes.” She says, “Very peaceful. Also the water feels very nice on my feet. It’s like a massage but better because it’s not people and this seems much cleaner than oil.”

Varric snorts.

“Do you want to join me?” She asks.

“Maybe next time.” Varric says because he’s not really one for taking his shoes off in the middle of wilderness that, up until recently, was filled with blighted wolves. Some people are alright with running barefoot, and Varric is not part of that group of people.

There are a strange and absurd amount of people he knows who are in that group -

Hawke, Broody, Chuckles, Daisy -

It’s a strangely _long list_.

In comparison the one he’s on is a lot shorter. Considering that they’re in the middle of a war with a guy from the sky, Varric is willing to table t his issue for later.

In the mean time –

“You eaten yet?”

“Some things I found.” She says, yawning. That’s what he thought.

Varric pulls out some bread and dried meat from his jacket pocket.

She brightens, sitting up to take the food from him. “Ma serannas, Varric!”

“You need to eat better, kid.” Varric says. “This is why no one trusts you with a dog.”

-

The castle does not ever fall asleep, not truly. It has been sleeping for so long and there is no one in its history who has ever held it as warmly as she does. Fills it so well.

Skyhold is old and Skyhold was so very nearly forgotten but no one will ever forget Skyhold again.

Skyhold loves her because it knows – Compassion knows, Pride knows, they all know – that she’s the lady of Skyhold even if she is no noble she has something in her that can’t be taken. She’s grown and cultivated something inside of her that she plants in the earth and all of them.

Something that spreads, like sunlight and spools.

Skyhold does not sleep, Skyhold does not have it in its walls and doors and floors and bones to sleep ever again, now that it has been woken so warmly and filled so gently.

Cole – Compassion – understands because he doesn’t think he could ever go back to sleep after this, either.

But the world around Skyhold and the things that fill Skyhold go to sleep, one by one.

The mountains sleep and now the mountains are dreaming. They don’t ever truly wake up. They are always dreaming of a time when they weren’t so small. When they ran with the blood of Titans.

Skyhold is warm, a little glow like fireflies and stars.

The trees doze in the wind, their leaves chatter softly until they are lulled to sleep by winter wind.

The stones echo and dampen the sound of feet – there are children in these walls, real and true children for the first time in dreams and Skyhold will never forget this love.

There is a kind of love for a place only children can give and that is special and Cole sometimes understands it but he is not a place. He is not stones and beds and protecting arches. He is himself and he understands and he listens and he soothes. That is all.

The mountain is dreaming and Skyhold is happy.

So much is thanks to her and time itself has changed for her.

Pride moves, the all seeing eye looks into the shadows, and the mother protects her young. Things are changing into what they haven’t been for a very long time.

She didn’t start it, but she’s part of it and Cole can see how it all comes together. Like puzzle pieces, like stones building a home.

She places a stone and those who came before her place stones, and those around her place stones and they are building something great.

The mountain is dreaming and the dreams are coming true.

 


	117. Chapter 117

Solas, she thinks, will be the darkness and constant in her life. Always. She doesn’t think she will ever forget him.

He’s taken too many parts of her, shaped them in ways she can’t undo. Parts are missing, there are parts that are new. Parts that sting and are unwanted and feel alien and wrong and parts that she can’t believe were missing her entire life. Parts she wishes she could live without, parts she can’t imagine living without, parts she loves, and parts she wishes she never knew about.

Even now that he’s gone – where did he _go_? Cole can’t even find him and he can find _anyone_ and Cole would know how to find Solas best out of them all. They’ve spent so much time together. Solas, Cole, and herself. She’d know Cole’s strange, soft, almost cotton and wheat mana anywhere. And she’d know Solas’ deep river-stone aura no matter what.

She likes to think that they’d be able to do the same with her.

It’s hard to imagine that Cole can’t find Solas anywhere.

Cole’s fingers are cool in hers as they watch the stars that Solas named and gave to them and her hand casts shadows upon their faces.

“He’s alive somewhere. And he’s always with you here.” Cole squeezes her hand. She closes her eyes and imagines a hand on her shoulder and a hand on Cole’s and a voice in their ears that tells them about stars and skies and power and history.

Sometimes she thinks Cole knows something that she doesn’t and is hiding it from her. But if he is, there has to be a reason. She doesn’t know, she’s afraid to ask, sometimes. Because she doesn’t want to know what it feels like when Cole lies to her face.

He gives her the truth in his own way. Cole always gives some form of the truth when he speaks. You just have to know how to look for it.

She curls her fingers around his.

“Is he safe?”

“I don’t know. Nothing is safe, sacred, secure anymore. No one, nothing. Not even the gods.” He says, head scanning the ground when she turns to look in his direction. She wants to lean down, duck so she can look into his face past that hat and hair and shadow. He shakes his head some more. “It’s all falling apart and coming together. Nothing will ever be safe again, not like this. Change. There will be change. Soon. Because and for you. You are change, changing, catalyst.”

Cole breaks off into something she can’t quite piece together and she lets him.

If she doesn’t understand it, it probably isn’t her place too, anyway.

If it’s meant to be, she’ll find out soon enough, anyway.

-

“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Poppy – it’s not my name, but it’s what Varric calls me and I prefer that to most other names people have me.” She says and Alistair looks at her and hums.

“Poppy like the flower or poppy like an adjective slash verb? As in – you pop up a lot?”

“I think he meant the flower but I like the other one, too.” She says after a moment of thought. “But mostly the flower because I like poppies and he said that poppies are like me and I don’t know if that’s just for him or if other people think so too.”

“No, no, I can see the resemblance.” Alistair says. “Very bright, poppies.”

Poppies are also somewhat poisonous and have the ability to create some nasty side effects if you aren’t careful. That, too, Alistair thinks, is somewhat apt.

Poppies are the flowers of dreams and what is she if not the dream and hope of so many people?

Alistair thinks that his love would like her quite a bit, if anything she’d be amused.

She’s so young. Then again, he was about her age during the Blight.

Maker, he’s so old, now.

He misses being out in the field, terribly though. Even if the ground was hard and the weather could get awful and the food was often about as palatable as his own boot. It was nice. Warm. Cozy.

He misses everyone so much. He misses being with them.

Realistically, he understands that the life he leads now is what’s real. The real thing. The Blight was something else, that was – an exception. A window of his life that defied all normal rules and logic and law.

He often wonders about how the others are doing, now. Where Shale is and if the dog has been fed and if Zevran has found anything interesting. He even wonders about Morrigan on occasion, though he supposes he knows how she is now.

“Poppy.” Alistair repeats.

She nods. “Poppy.”

“Those are pretty.” He says and she smiles. “I’m partial to roses, myself, though.”

“I know this story.” Lavellan laughs, “Leliana told me and it’s a kissing story.”

Alistair flushes, “She wasn’t even _there_ for it!”

“You were in the middle of camp, she was definitely there for it.”

“Maker’s breath – whatever she told you, it wasn’t like that! I bet she made me sound stupid.”

“You sounded charming and love struck.”

“Well, I definitely _am_ charming. That aside, let me tell it to you like how it _really_ happened.”

-

“You know, she is right, you _are_ a bard. It isn’t too out of the realm of propriety for her to ask you for a story.”

Leliana hums.

“Well. I do have a story about that time where I rescued the Warden with nothing but a dog and my underthings.”

Josephine coughs and Leliana laughs.

“It’s not a true story of course, Surana was able to break herself and Alistair out in nothing but her smalls.” Leliana waves her hand, smiling as Josephine gapes at her. “Oh, Josie, the look on your face. She saved all of Thedas from the Blight as one of the only two surviving Gray Wardens and you’re surprised that she was able to break out of jail in her smalls? She’s done more with less, you know.”

“Your friends are terrifying.” Josephine says.

“You’re one of my friends.” Leliana points out. “Does that not make you terrifying as well?”

Leliana taps her finger against her chin -

“Well. You are terrifyingly good at paper work and letters.”

“I would hope so, considering that’s what I’ve been brought here for.”

“About that – I do apologize. I suppose a room in a church isn’t as nice as an ambassador’s suite.” Leliana says. “The lighting is certainly much worse than what you’re used to, no doubt.”

Josephine gives Leliana a _look_.

“I’ve done more with less.”


	118. Chapter 118

“I’m going to need you to put on something before you continue talking.” Dorian says, closing his eyes.

“Dorian you’ve seen me in less.”

“Not by _much_.” Considering that all she has is a scarf – one of the lopsided ones that Dalish is learning to knit from Krem, the kind with the cute edges – he really is seeing about the same amount of he has as the _in less_.

“Oh, come on, Dorian, we don’t have time for you to be silly about my skin.”

“Too much skin for my delicate sensibilities. People are going to talk.”

“People always talk. _Dorian, come on,_ I need your help.”

Dorian feels a lot of skin collide against him, slipping underneath the covers and plastering to his side.

Dorian imagines that this is something a lot of people would happily kill for – him or her – and then decides that this is a way to be number one. In a strange and twisted way and he’ll take it.

No. Not really.

Dorian shoves a pillow at her, and it’s terribly flat so it doesn’t do much.

Lavellan laughs. Like the secret demon she is.

She curls around him like some odd and adorable sort of leech and shoves her face into his neck.

“Dorian, Dorian, Dorian, Dorian.”

“Lavellan, Lavellan, Lavellan, Lavellan.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you!”

“Is it that you’ve magically put on clothing decent for someone of your station?”

“No, don’t be silly. I’ve found _griffons_.”

Dorian’s eyes fly open and he sits up – bringing her with him in a move that makes his muscles protest.

“You’ve _what?_ Get off me and turn around so I can look you in the eye when you lie to me. You’ve found what?”

“Griffons. And I’m not lying.” She slips around so that she’s sitting on his lap and smiles, pleased and smug in ways that make him think that she’s been spending too much time with Solas. “And I wanted to tell you first.”

Dorian clasps her shoulders.

“You’ve found actual griffons. They’re supposed to be extinct.”

“Cole says otherwise. He saw them and he knows where they are.” She tips her chin up, so completely pleased with herself. “And I’m going to go get them.”

“Not without me.” Dorian says, shoving her so he can get dressed. She lands like a perfect cat on the floor. He throws some of the clothes she leaves in his quarters at her. “Get dressed. We aren’t rounding up griffons naked. _Griffons_. Griffons! Oh, everyone in Tevinter will eat their _staves_ with jealousy. Actual real griffons, I could _kiss you_. I won’t because there isn’t enough time for that – oh, forget it – “

Dorian spins around, yanking her into his arms and kissing her forehead.

“I _adore you_ and while I may sometimes dread the sort of twists and turns your terrible luck brings us, in this very moment I appreciate it because _griffons._ Supposedly _extinct_ creatures. Alive. _Alive! Andraste’_ s flaming _sword_. Kiss Cole for me.”

-

“Is she _alright_?” Cassandra says, bursting into the infirmary about two seconds later than Dorian would have thought she’d be here. Then he sees half the Chargers behind her, looking like they all received a good hit from Krem’s mallet to the head. He gives them credit. Most people would die from experiencing Cassandra’s charge. Or at least, wouldn’t be getting up again. It must be all that time training with the Iron Bull.

“She’s alive, which is more than I can say for most people who get _hit by a stampede_.” Dorian says.

Lavellan looks woozy and is still somehow able to walk. Granted, not in a straight line and not very quickly – but she doesn’t walk in a straight line _or_ very quickly to start with.

She walks in a _straighter_ line now, which is something he almost wants to investigate more. Like, if she’s physically addled does that somehow correct her meandering path? How does it _work_?

Lavellan waves at Cassandra.

“Hi.”

Cassandra looks between Lavellan and Dorian and then decides Dorian is the more adult of the two, in this situation.

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? Because in all honesty, it’s probably better than what actually happened.” Dorian says, then leans around her. “Any of you need medical attention while I’m at it?”

Dorian is a competent healer. It isn’t his forte but he knows enough.

“We’re good.” Rocky groans out and he can see them all making beelines – wobbly bee lines – for the tavern.

Oh, how Dorian wishes he could join them.

“Well. Aside from what you have probably guessed. There was also fire involved.”

“Lightning.” Lavellan corrects.

Cassandra’s mouth takes on a whole new dimension of disapproving that Dorian didn’t know it was capable of.

Dorian pinches Lavellan’s ankle in an attempt to get her to shut up – for once – and let him talk her out of death via dragon slaying Seeker. Either she’s more tired and woozy than he thought or she’s had a sudden bout of life preservation instinct because, miracle of miracles, she closes her eyes and goes to sleep.

Not the best idea because she has had a significant head injury, so he gently shakes her awake.

Cassandra let out a loud and frightening breath and turns around.

“I’m going to ask Solas.”

Solas is probably going to make it sound a lot more reasonable than it really is, but he’d be better at it than Dorian. Solas can handle Cassandra. He doesn’t know how Solas does it, but he does and it’s one of his few admirable traits.

“Right, you do that.” Dorian says. “I’ll just stay here and make sure that this one doesn’t fall asleep.”

“I won’t.” Lavellan yawns out. She does a wonderful job of not sounding slurred at all but Dorian doesn’t believe her.

“Of course not.” Dorian says, “Which is why I’m going to sit here and talk to you all about your current thought process and how your thought processes lead up to this point since you’re not going to fall asleep any time soon.”


	119. Chapter 119

There are many kinds of _young_.

There’s the young of true and genuine children – babies – the young that wears away by necessity and time. It can’t be held on to, no matter how hard you do or don’t try. That’s one kind of young, it’s easy to spot. It’s a kind of young that makes Bull feel soft. It’s the kind of young that’s hard to ignore, because it _is_ something that just makes you notice. Whether you’re annoyed by it or charmed by it, it’s a kind of young that makes you react, acknowledge it.

Then there’s the kind of young that can stay with you – like Cole’s young. Cole is young – and he will always be _young_. It’s not a physical kind of young. It’s a kind of understanding, an innocence and a way of thinking that cuts through the bullshit you start to gather like cobwebs when you’re an adult.

The Boss has that kind of young, too, but different.

There’s the kind of young people have, civilians. It’s easily lost. They live their lives in their shops or their farms or their castles. Then they see death. Something bad happens to them. Maybe their house burns down or maybe their dog dies or maybe their grandparents die. Maybe their neighbor dies or gets murdered or worse. And that kind of young chips away slowly. And quickly. It all depends, really.

He thinks that the Boss was that kind of young, in the Dalish way.

He knows, from speaking to Dalish, what her life would have been like if there were no mage-Templar war, no conclave, no Inquisition.

She would’ve had to have kids, and because she’s a mage she’d have a smaller choice of who to have those kids with and she’d have had to have them as soon as possible. They have to get out as many maybe-magic babies out of her as possible before she dies.

She would’ve run from slavers, asshole humans, and sometimes maybe other clans.

It wouldn’t have been an easy life. And she wouldn’t have been very young, but there’s a quality to her kind of young that is distinct to the Dalish.

She’s slowly losing bits of that, too.

But she’s still _young_ in ways that make Bull think it’s a damn shame.

He knows that she tries because sometimes even the violence the Inquisition wields and the weight of the Inquisition’s power startles her. The ease of cutting through resistance and putting down enemies is so good, the machine of the Inquisition is powerful and growing and on a roll.

It frightens her sometimes, that power.

He sees it in her eyes and knows she tries not to let it get to her. But that kind of power – when your people are oppressed and starving for it their entire lives, that kind of power is like a flood to a drowning man. It can kill you and it can take you away from your desert and it can do all sorts of things to you.

You emerge from it changed.

She’s young and trying damn hard to make sure she seems that way.

Because she _is young._ One of the younger ones in their group of fighters. She’s young enough to want to learn and she’s old enough to get past the stage of thinking she knows everything. She’s young enough to adapt and grow but old enough to know how to adapt wisely.

She’s young enough to believe in other people and she’s old enough to be armed when that fails.

But war breaks on you, Bull knows. And it gets hard to be that kind of young, that kind of innocent.

Lavellan is kind and that takes work and strength and she is so damn fresh and green that it’s sometimes amazing that she _has_ that strength to be kind.

That she’s keeping it.

“It’s easier to be kind when there are other people to be kind to you.” She says. Bull wonders about that. More people should probably be kinder, then.

She tries hard to be kind and to be young for their sakes because it’s one thing to outfit her for war, it’s another thing to realize what you’re taking away from her when you do it.

But sometimes Bull sees the edges, worn and hard. And he understands.

“You don’t have to hold back with me, Boss.” He says. And she smiles at him and it’s one of those sharp smiles that Bull is just starting to learn are her _real_ smiles and she laughs but it’s one of those nice laughs, kind ones.

“I know, Bull.” She says and he thinks she’s being kind.

-

“Stop that deer!” Someone yells and Varric doesn’t even have to turn to know that Lavellan’s gone running after said deer – one of the newer ones to arrive to Skyhold. The hart is beautiful and a sort of light reddish brown. A bit smaller than Lavellan’s own hart, but has just as much attitude.

Varric sighs, “Ten says she’s gets in front of it.”

“Fifteen says she jumps on it.” Blackwall returns.

“You’re both on and twenty says she gets scooped.” Krem says.

“Sucker’s bet I’m not betting against you Aclassi.” Blackwall says and Varric agrees. Krem sighs. “You’ve been watching that girl on her stag since you got here.”

They watch as Lavellan springs after the stag like she’s a doe, jumping, skipping, and tumbling over and through obstacles before managing to cut him off before he hits the main gait.

Lavellan springs out in front of him and the deer tips his head and swerves, knocking her side with his neck as he runs past, deftly scooping her onto his back without a pause.

“I’m glad I didn’t take that bet.”

“We would’ve technically all won. Except Blackwall.” Krem points out.”

“Sucker’s bet.” Blackwall repeats.

Lavellan calms the stag down enough that he comes back to the stables quietly.

“You startled him.” She says as they pass by one of the visiting merchants. “That’s why he ran. You have to be very careful. Harts are delicate.”

Varric, Blackwall, and Krem turn to look in the stable at the other harts the Inquisitor has been gifted, adopted, or otherwise gained.

The two of the harts are attempting to pick a fight with the dracolisc, and the rest are quietly staring back at them.

“Delicate is one way to put it.” Varric says.

“Terrifying is another.” Krem snorts.

“You wanna tell that to her yourself?” Blackwall says, opening the stable gate as Lavellan brings the hart around. “Because it’s been a while since I’ve heard the lecture on the delicate sensibilities of harts. And I’m sure all of Skyhold could use the refresher.”


	120. Chapter 120

“Solas means pride.” The girl says, eyes curious as she peers at him through the window. Solas hums and is glad to have it confirmed for him once more that the joke of his new title isn’t something completely lost on the Dalish.

He chose this name for a reason, after all. It means nothing if he’s the only one who sees the jest, even if he is the only one who understands it.

“Yes.” He says, continuing to sort some of the notes he’s been taking on the Breach. It shouldn’t have done that. Granted, it was his power, and granted it was quite a substantial amount of it. But it should not have torn the Veil.

He helped _make_ the Veil, after all. His magic shouldn’t act against itself. There’s another factor, something _else_ interfering.

“Why are you named for Pride?” She asks, arms folded on the windowsill, cheek resting against her arms, eyes focused on him. He doesn’t know if he trusts her, just yet.

The Dalish have decades of proving themselves narrow minded and insular. One occurrence of acceptance isn’t enough to give him room to change his mind.

“Why do you think?”

“You don’t _seem_ proud.” She says after a long moment of watching him – he can feel her mana, her aura, tentatively pushing against his. Feeling him out. Solas is momentarily surprised enough to respond.

They don’t teach that in Circles. And he hasn’t touched mana with another mage in years.

There is a moment of connection, of soft trust and gentle testing and delighted _want_. For one of the short lived elves, he supposes that to her – these few weeks without contact, without the touch of mana to her own. He remembers a time ages before sleep when he was surrounded in mana that was not his and it was all one and bleeding together and peaceful and comforting.

Solas gives her that connection, for just a moment before gently pulling away. Threads of her mana cling to him before slowly spooling back into her.

“You don’t _feel_ proud.” She mumbles into her arm.

“You didn’t feel enough.” Solas says. She had tried, but it is easy to deflect her.

“Why are you named for pride?”

“I did not say it was my name. It is what I am called.” There aren’t many who call for him these days, though. And they tend to use a different name when they remember.

Lavellan’s frown twists her vallaslin and Solas has to look away.

“I am called Solas.” He repeats, “And perhaps if you are unlucky, you will understand, in the end.”

-

“Well.” Dorian says as he walks out of the fitting room, “I’ve got our outfits. _Now_ you can talk the tailor into quitting his job and pursuing his lifelong dreams of herding goats.”

“With _pleasure_.” Lavellan declares, gliding past him into the fitting room.

“She’s a terrible influence.” Vivienne says.

“Be glad that we were able to convince her to give her _follow your dreams_ speech _after_ we got our business here done.” Dorian replies. “We weren’t able to get any of the flowers Josephine needed last time.”

“A florist is a respectable job.” Vivienne sniffs. “I don’t know why in the world she would have wanted to become a traveling _entertainer_ of all things.”

“Now, de Fer, you say the word entertainer like it’s something terribly scandalous. After all, _someone_ had to provide you something to talk about at all your little events.”

“My events are little, darling.” Vivienne sniffs, reaching out to take some of the packages from Dorian’s arms. She peels back some of the brown wrapping paper to inspect them. “These will do, I suppose. I don’t see why we couldn’t have just had these _delivered_.”

“It’s good to air her out.” Dorian says. “She gets all wrinkly and musty if we get her get cooped up for too long.”

Vivienne lets out an amused titter and they both pause when they hear Lavellan’s voice raises enough for them to hear through the door. She sounds excited.

“Someone’s enthusiastic.” Vivienne says when the tailor’s voice joins in with hers.

“She’s infectious.”

“Like the plague.”

“Or the Blight.”

“It’s awful of us to compare her to things that can kill you, isn’t it?”

“We never claimed to be good people.” Dorian points out. “Also, she can kill people.”

“This is true.” Vivienne hums, tapping her fingers on her arm. “Are they quite alright?”

There’s a loud crash and Dorian throws his arm out, backing up and pressing Vivienne against the counter as the door flies open, the tailor _and_ their Inquisitor flying out at the same time.

The two are vigorously shaking hands as the tailor talks at leagues a second about closing up and going home and something, something, _goats_ , something, _lucky goat_ , something, _talking goat_ – and that sounds strangely familiar.

They get ushered out incredibly fast and are promised a goat.

Well, Lavellan is promised a goat.

Dorian has no idea what she’d _do_ with a goat, considering she has a castle and a small army of merchants under her, but he supposes it’s the thought that counts.

And if anything – you can eat a goat.

(Hersey to eat a stag, apparently.)

-

“Three pride demons in the forest – fine, but _one more_ and I’m going to _kill her_. Just. Push her off the edge of a cliff. No one would even blame me.” Dorian says and Blackwall shoots him a dirty look. “What? You aren’t thinking the same? How many times have you been knocked aside by a Pride demon this _week_? And why are there so many of them here?”

“It’s a forest full of the graves of dead elves.” Sera says. “They’re _proud_.”

“It would also explain the abundance of despair demons.” Blackwall points out. “Graves and what not.”

“Am I the only one annoyed by the pride demons? Also, where’s the Inquisitor?”

“Collecting pride demon remains.” Sera points. “Also, no, I’m freaked out by them. Annoyed is so – I dunno. What’s the fancy word? The one Vivienne always uses?”

“Blasé.” Blackwall says.

“Yeah. What he said. It takes a certain level of – I dunno – _indifference_ to call a pride demon _annoying_. Honesty, when did that become your _life_?”

“ _Our_ lives.” Dorian corrects her. “And probably around the time a certain elf tripped into our lives and said the words _join the Inquisition_.”

“She technically never said those words to any of us. We all volunteered before she could ask.” Blackwall points out.

“It’s the spirit of the thing that counts.”

“Spirit of what thing?”

“You know what I mean. In _any event_ , pride demons. They’re very annoying. And I’m _tired_ of them. I almost miss the rage demons. They were so entertaining when they crack to pieces.”


	121. Chapter 121

“Long before I was born there was a boy.” Cole says to her and her head hurts and her chest hurts and _everything hurts_ and she hates being sick but she hates not being able to do anything about it _more_.

At least Skyhold is safe. At least, she thinks Skyhold is safe. Skyhold _feels_ safe and Cole always talks about the heart of the mountain the heart of the castle and how much they love her for coming home -

She doesn’t quite understand what that means, because she’d never been to Skyhold before and home is always with her, but she calls Skyhold home _now_ and that makes sense, _now_ , but that was before. Before she called Skyhold home, before she knew Skyhold, how did it know that she would learn to call it home?

Skyhold feels safe and there are people who need her so she should be safe, too, and it’s not like the forest, not like then, not like fences of halla and stone and fire and watching eyes.

She sucks in a breath that makes her throat hurt and her chest constrict and Cole’s hand is cold and clammy around hers. Or maybe her hand is the one that’s cold and clammy, she can’t tell. Why is the word _clammy_? She doesn’t think clams feel like this.

“There was a boy and he forgot a lot of things. He lost them along the way.” Cole says, “He didn’t mean to. But that’s what growing up does to you sometimes. You forget things, and it takes something that hurts to bring it back to you. But it never comes back because once you leave something you can never return.”

The back of her eyes hurt and she thinks of the Keeper’s lap, her hands in her hair and the soft cadences of fragmented Dalish words that she’ll never hear again – not really, because her head is full of things lost to her people and she’ll go back someday and her clan will open their arms and hearts to her but she’ll never be their First again because she’s the Inquisitor now and she is friends with a Tevinter Altus and a Qunari spy and a former Templar and a Seeker of Truth and the hands of the Divine. She’ll never be their first again because she knows how it feels to slay a dragon and she’s walked over the Emerald Graves of their people and she’s looked into the jeweled skulls of the Tranquil.

The world she sometimes misses and aches for seems so small now. She doesn’t know how she’ll fit.

“He forgot the lonely wolf.” Cole whispers. “He got too big and he destroyed what he meant to protect. He was too big.”

She wants to ask Cole why he’s telling her this because it hurts and it feels like he’s warning or blaming her for something and she wants to protest that she’s not going to hurt the Dalish, she’s trying to save them by being a good example, she’ll bring honor to her clan -

“I’m telling you so that you understand.” Cole says. “He loves you. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He doesn’t mean to hurt you. He loves you like he loved them so long ago and he doesn’t know how to love things without hurting them. I’m telling you before he makes me forget again. I’m telling you because you will forget. But what is forgotten can be recovered. Because what is forgotten still exists, and once spoken it can never be undone. A knot that ties people together that can never be cut. Sleep.”

-

“Well. Around here, everyone has a story about kindness and acorns.” Rylen says when a scout comes up to him looking confused and a little lost. “You get used to it. And don’t lose that damned acorn. Maker and any gods listening above help you if you do. She could make an assassin feel guilt.”

They know this because she _has_ made assassins feel guilt and because Blackwall made the mistake of misplacing the first acorn she gave him and they’re fairly sure the man hasn’t emotionally recovered since.

This really isn’t want Rylen thought he was signing up for, but he’s getting used to it. It’s not exactly a hardship to save the world when your only other option is stand aside and let it fall to shit. It helps that their Inquisitor isn’t much in the vein of power hungry, ambitious, or arrogant sod who abuses their power over the rifts.

Rylen keeps his acorn tucked in the folds of his shirt because that’s really the safest place for it. He knows Commander Cullen keeps his tied in some cloth on his belt next to his sword and Seeker Pentaghast keeps hers in her coin purse.

Some soldiers keep theirs inside their hats. It’s practically a rite of passage to receive an acorn from the Inquisitor at this point. Rylen isn’t sure _where_ she’s getting the acorns or where she’s been keeping them.

They only just recently found her stash of fruit seeds in one of the walls behind half of a broken brick.

“You get used to it.” Rylen says, and that’s technically true. You don’t get used to the guilt or the surprises, but you can get used to some of the other things to a certain degree. In example, Rylen is used to the Inquisitor barging into the Commander’s quarters and climbing up his ladder or underneath his desk to hide – herself and other things – and he’s used to the Commander lying for her about said hidden things.

But he is not quite used to the way she can sometimes _appear_ without warning. You just turn around and -

“ _Maker’s breath_.” Rylen coughs and Lavellan blinks up at him.

“Are you sick?”

He really thinks that they ought to put a bell or something on her – but the chances of it staying attached are slim to nothing.

“No, your worship. Just showing some of the newest soldiers to Skyhold the lay of the land.”

“The lay of the land.” She repeats, muttering to herself and repeating the phrase. “But land doesn’t lay. Or – lie. Because it doesn’t get up.”

“It’s a phrase, your worship.” He says, because you get used to this, too. Cultural differences. “Meaning getting an idea of how things are and how things work.”

“Oh.” She says, leaning around him and waving. “Hello! Welcome to Skyhold. Have any of you happened to see a dwarf?”

There are a lot of – well, not a lot, but enough dwarves about Skyhold that her question is somewhat vague and difficult to answer.

“Which dwarf?” He asks because the Inquisition isn’t much for propriety – what, being led by a Dalish mage – and if one waits on standard military protocol you’d be waiting for quite some time.

Lavellan hums, raises her hand up, “This tall. Wears a hood. His name is Rocky. He smells like walnuts and rocks. He has dark hair and a scratchy voice. He’s nice. Also he might be wobbling a bit because he’s a tad bit drunk and also sick.”


	122. Chapter 122

Cole, a being of both peace and fear, was his greatest betrayer. He means to help, he’s sure. But his attempts at helping are really only counter productive to Solas’ own plans.

She must not _know_. Not now, at least. Not yet.

Perhaps someday, when this is all over and done with, he will allow it. But not today. Not yet.

“It doesn’t seem to stick.” Solas sighs and perhaps Cole is just trying very hard to hold on. Cole has spent his existence making others forget what is painful and troublesome to them, and now it seems he, himself, is unwilling to forget.

Solas knows that Cole is – if not completely aware and comprehending of the situation at hand, then he feels something amiss. Cole’s abilities cut through lies to the complicated and painful heart of things. But he does not _know_ Solas’ _reasons_. He doesn’t know his logic.

And that is what’s important. Not his regrets or his pains. But his plans.

Diminished as his power is, he is still able to make Cole forget. It is draining,  yes, but necessary.

Solas supposes that he is just lucky that Cole only fights off the forgetting long enough to tell the Inquisitor when she isn’t able to hear him. Asleep, sick, unconscious, or otherwise not around.

“You are supposed to share your burdens with the ones you love because you are not a burden.” Cole says as Solas peels away layers of memories and replaces them with illusions.

“Yes.” Solas agrees. “But one must be careful with such things, Cole. Sometimes your burdens can destroy those you share them with.”

“She is strong enough.”

“Perhaps in time she will be. But not yet. Forget, Cole. Forget and enjoy your time in this realm. It is a fleeting time. Your time with her. With us. Do not squander it on unraveling my mistakes.”

-

“She’s only a girl with a complicated weapon.” The man hisses and Sera almost laughs out loud, biting her lip hard to keep from making any sound. “She’s just an elf. We’ve killed tons of elves before. Magic or no.”

Sera carefully peers around the corner, and raises her bow. Quietly. Steady.

That elf is her friend. And she _is_ only a girl but she’s also the Inquisitor of Thedas and a damn strong leader.

Sera aims and waits – because these things? It’s about timing. It’s about _performance_. It’s about sending a _message_.

Red Jenny is with the Inquisitor – for now – and Sera is with Lavellan as far as she can see. And Sera can see pretty damn far.

The future is just a stupid wheel of the rich and poor and Lavellan is this steady, steady thing that’s always bobbing around the center.

“Those elves didn’t have armies.” Someone is smart enough to say.

Those elves didn’t have Sera, either.

Before anyone say anything Sera shoots.And then people are dead and dying because elves can see in the dark and humans – humans wearing helmets with face guards – can’t fucking see. Dumbass.

They’re just men with buckets on their heads in the middle of the night.

-

“I can’t believe Josephine used to be a bard. What with the desk and ruffles and clipboard with candle.” Lavellan says, swinging her legs as she helps shell peas for supper.

“The past hides many mysteries and surprises from us.” Leliana says.

“Why are you in the kitchen, Leliana?” Lavellan asks.

“Because even spymasters eat.” She replies, lips quirking upwards. That and the aviary hasn’t completed construction quite yet. Another week, Cullen thinks,and it’ll be safe enough for her to permanently set up there.

In the mean time there are many things that go on in the kitchen, and the production of food is just one of them.

Kitchens are gossip centers. Lavellan probably knows this, she just hasn’t connected the points yet.

“I feel like you’re too important for this.” Lavellan says. “I mean, in the clan everyone does chores equally but among shemlen it doesn’t seem that way. Dorian doesn’t cook.”

“Dorian is a guest.”

“Guests don’t normally do paperwork and stuff.” Lavellan says.

“Dorian is complicated.” Leliana says and wonders about how to best explain the difference between the fact that Leliana, herself, is part of and works with the Inquisition, while Dorian is an outside ally. A member who isn’t.

“Yes, he is.” Leliana laughs a little when Lavellan agrees. Different types of complicated, she’s sure. “We like him anyway. Don’t we, Leliana?”

“For now, we do.” Leliana concedes even though it gets her half a frown. Leliana holds out a perfect apple peel to Lavellan who accepts it with delight.

It’s somewhat easy to get her attention away from things you don’t wish to speak about.

The peel hangs from her mouth as she continues to shell peas.

Leliana is hit with the memory of someone completely and not different from different age, a different group, a different life and her heart hurts.

Lavellan hums a little and Leliana’s ears pick up on many whispers.

Fortunate for them, most of the whispers here aren’t directed at Lavellan. It’s hard enough keeping her safe from the outside world, Leliana would hate to even consider having to defend her from attacks from people who should be on their side. They’re very fortunate that their Inquisitor is someone likeable.

Leliana shudders to think about what would have happened if it was someone arrogant or power hungry. Someone biased and proud.

They lucked out, to put it simply.

Half the battle is won when you have people who work for you because they want to, rather than because they have to. There is a time and a place for fear.

Those are Leliana’s times and places.

Leliana hums as she picks up another apple to peel.

Lavellan exchanges her peas for potatoes and takes a knife and a cup of tea from one of the cooks, fond and red faced from the heat of the fire, smiling because it’s very hard not to smile a little in her presence.

Leliana hopes that this particular stroke of luck continues to hold. They’re going to need as much luck as possible if they’re going to win this war.


	123. Chapter 123

“Well. I’ve got my evil Tevinter papers. Now I’m going to go drink myself to death. Use my dead body wisely.” Dorian announces and Cullen reaches out to grab the back of his tunic.

“Explain.”

Because if _Cullen_ has to sit here and deal with his forming headache that’s cropping up from the amount of letters on backlog they’ve been helping Josephine with, then so does Dorian because _Dorian is the one who dragged Cullen here in the first place_.

(“Get some air, why don’t you? You’re looking all musty.”

“You want me to get some air by leaving my office to go to Josephine’s office and doing her paperwork instead of my own?”

“There’s tea and gossip.”

“Am I allowed to say no?”

“You can say  no, but you’re still going, you realize.”)

“What evil Tevinter papers?” Lavellan asks, and really – for once – she’s the only one here making any sort of progress.

She’s cruelly efficient in the way she sorts and answers mail.

Josephine has been nit-picking and dithering on how to answer most of them and Lavellan’s solution to the large and intimidating amount of letters from nobility and other wealthy but untitled people was to toss them into the fireplace.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Things about licenses and properties and accounts and whatnot.” Dorian says. “Gossip, threats, the occasional bribe. It’s all so very ugly.”

“May I read it?”

“You can’t read Tevene.” Dorian says but he hands it over to her anyway because they’re best friends and this means sharing and swapping things like letters, clothes, weapons, meals, and on that one rare occasion that Cullen still gets a headache thinking about – blood and spit.

“I can read _some_ Tevene.” Lavellan replies, not looking over as she plucks a letter that had been stumping Josephine for the past quarter hour from the ambassador’s fingers and tossing it over her shoulder to get torn to shreds by one of the puppies that imprinted on her.

Cullen never thought he’d live to see the day where Josephine would allow animals into her offices.

And allow said animals to make such a mess.

Lavellan, Cullen thinks with something quickly approaching the kind of awe he holds for the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall and his own sister, is a force to be reckoned with.

“That was important.” Josephine says.

“No it wasn’t.” Lavellan replies, easy and calm, humming a little as she squints at Dorian’s letters. “Leliana and her people check all the mail that comes to Skyhold and they mark the really important ones and put those on top of our work piles so we get them done as soon as possible. This backlog is everything they deemed not that important so it’s fine.”

“She’s right.” Leliana says, and she’s almost finished with her pile and Cullen would really like to know why he’s here. He’s no diplomat and there’s really nothing here he can do except open envelopes and write down names.

They have scribes for this.

“We need someone to be the calm one.” Leliana says turning to him. “So stop wondering about why you’re here. You’ll mess up that face of yours.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Dorian says.

“The Inquisitor is calm.” Cullen says.

“We need someone calmer.” Leliana replies and even as she answers Lavellan’s moved to standing on her chair and holding up Dorian’s letter to the light from a window. “You have a very stable feeling about you. Like the world could be falling about your ears and it’ll be alright. It’s an admirable quality, Commander. To be frank, even Surana didn’t have that quality.”

“Really?” Josephine asks. “When you think or speak of her, that’s what you tend to feel.”

“It was more of a – the world can and probably is about to fall down about our ears but not without us bringing down everyone with us feeling. Not so much a calm feeling so much as a rallying, last stand feeling. Zevran tells me that, sometimes, when he sees her, he has the unexplainable urge to start punching people in the face.”

-

“Explain this from the beginning.” Leliana says.

“Well.” Lavellan says, hands folded behind her back, “I pretended to be a maid. And that’s where things get complicated.”

“You.” Leliana says, “A _maid_?”

Lavellan has shin guards, a practice sword across her back, a split lip that’s half-way through being fully healed, and Dalish tattoos.

There is no maid in the history of – of well, _ever_ that has looked like this.

“And they _believed you_?”

“It must be the ears.” Lavellan deadpans.

“Of course. Continue.” Leliana has a dreadful feeling that this is going to end up with a stitch in her side because she’ll be trying to hold in too much laughter.

Or rage.

“See. I didn’t want them to _know_ I was the Inquisitor.” Lavellan says. “Because they seem like the sort of type to start talking at me about politics and religion and money and things and I was tired and a little hungry and mostly I don’t like talking about those sort of things with those sort of people. You know what kind I mean? The kind that doesn’t really listen to what you’re saying. They don’t change their minds, that lot. And I wasn’t feeling up to it also when people find out I’m the Inquisitor they start lying and stuff and it’s a gross feeling knowing someone is lying to your face. It’s awful, really. Also as they were walking past me they were saying such dreadful things and I couldn’t bear it if they suddenly started – what’s the phrase? Sucking up? Sucking up to me after hearing all that.”

Makes sense.

“A _maid_.” Leliana can’t help repeating.

“Yes. I pretended to be a maid and then they told me about their terrible accommodations and how I should do something about it or at least learn to clean. And then they started to prattle on and on and on about how important they were but they can’t have been that important if no one made me memorize their names or their portraits and I suppose I said that out loud because they got angry at me and started yelling. But I still wasn’t really paying attention because I saw Dalish and Rocky up on the castle walls and they were waving at me and I waved at them then the angry people turned around to see who I was waving to but Dalish and Rocky hid so I guess they thought I was trying to play a trick on them. I wasn’t, really. You believe me about that part, don’t you?”

“I believe you on all the parts.” Lavellan smiles.

“So they were yelling and trying to back me up against the wall and I still wasn’t listening very much because Dalish and Rocky popped up again and Dalish was making these hand gestures and – well. It’s a system of silent communication for us and it’d take too long to explain. Long story short someone grabbed my hair while I was trying to tell Dalish what I wanted for dinner and then I used that move Cassandra taught me to throw him into the bird bath – why do we have a birdbath? There aren’t many birds at Skyhold except for our messenger birds and some of our hunting birds. – and then swords were drawn, honor was challenged, and I ruined the garden. I’m sorry. Can my punishment be fixing the garden?”

Lavellan pauses.

“To clarify, I’m sorry about making a mess of the garden, not about the rest of it.”

“I thought as much.” Leliana replies. “You can fix the garden but I highly doubt you’d consider it a punishment.”

“No. I probably wouldn’t.”

“At least you’re very honest about it.”

“I try to be. Am I in trouble?”

“No.” Leliana says. “But that still doesn’t explain how the Earl ended up with a codfish down his trousers.”

Lavellan hums.

“That happened in between me throwing the other Earl into the birdbath and the duel. I didn’t see it happen. It was probably Cole. He’s been playing with visual puns. Codpiece and codfish. You know?”


	124. Chapter 124

"You're my favorite saarebas boss, Boss." Bull says.  
  
Lavellan narrows her eyes at him. "I am your _only_ saarebas boss, Bull."  
  
And Bull might be a little tipsy. With the day he's had and the stuff he's drinking it'd be more surprising if he weren't. He's not full on drunk, mind you - he makes it a point not to do that when on a job. And no matter how fun this gets, no matter how nice it gets, it's still a _job_ -  
  
As long as money changes hands, it's a job. Though - when he thinks about it, and he _doesn't_ because thinking about it means taking a long and hard look at himself, at the scars and missing pieces and the things he's said and done and didn't, and that's not something Bull likes to do very much - he's completely certain he would do this for free. Just to be _here_. With her and them and have his guys safe and be doing something interesting and maybe good. Demons and all. He'd choose this. Choose her, choose _them_.  
  
(Not the Inquisition, _nah_. Bull doesn't go in for names like that, it's people he follows.  
  
The Qun, a voice inside of him chants, the Qun, anaan esaam Qun.)  
  
Lavellan hums.  
  
"I've had other mage bosses before you Boss." Bull says. "You're my favorite one, though."  
  
She hums some more, reaching out to grab Stitches by the collar of his shirt when he threatens to fall over, some sort of crazy reflex because she turns and looks at the guy like she has no idea how he got there.  
  
And she's definitely hadn't drunk anything - unless the others were sneaking to her when he wasn't looking. She's technically not supposed to be drinking. It'd interfere with whatever the healers got her on to help her with the pain.  
  
Well. Maybe she's a little high off that. Who knows?  
  
"Of course I am." Lavellan says, "You like me. As a person and everything."  
  
"As a person and everything." Bull agrees, reaches over and ruffles her hair, earning an indignant squawk and a soft giggle. His hand could pretty much swallow her entire head if he tried.  
  
She scares something deep inside of him that he doesn't like to look at.  
  
He hopes he never has to look at it. But there's something in his gut that tells him he's going to have to do it. And soon.  
  
The Qun does not accept second place for anyone.  
  
-  
  
She's wearing one of the dresses brought to her by the Dalish that come in and out of Skyhold, like ghosts.  
  
If Josephine thinks about it, the Dalish are nothing but ghosts, haunting the rest of them for their sins and perpetual crimes.  
  
It surprised her at first - to see Lavellan in the flowing and fringed dress that hung off one shoulder, the other dipping down to expose lines and lines and lines. She had always thought of the Inquisitor as someone who was just - boyish. She certainly shows little to negative interest in their design plans for the upcoming ball. And she's never really been one to care about her image.  
  
She'll show up with mud and twigs in her hair for meetings with important merchants and sparring sessions with their soldiers.  
  
But today Lavellan is wearing a dress of soft cotton with beads and embroidery, hem swishing around her thighs, feet and legs and arms bare as she trots over towards the stables.  
  
Josephine watches her and wonders. She looks so different - when she's not wearing her armor or the brown tunic and breeches they found for her when they came to Skyhold and realized she literally didn't have any other clothes than the ones that were on her back.  
  
It seems like Lavellan is always showing them what she's like. Every moment of every day she is the same, open and bright and honest person she is with everyone. And it seems like she's always saying something about her clan or her people. And yet Josephine doesn't know a single thing about her. Not really.  
  
Josephine wonders how Lavellan chose to dress herself when she was with her people, how she chose to wear her hair and what kind of cloth she liked to use when she sewed and what she liked to cook and what she did with her free time. Josephine wonders what colors Lavellan used when she dyed cloth and what she liked to sew and what she thought was boring and what she thought was interesting enough to pursue.  
  
Lavellan does a little skip over a puddle before pausing, and looking around before going back to jump in it. Josephine can't help but snort a short laugh.  
  
The Dalish are young and immeasurably old. Contradictions. Lavellan can go from talking down a Tevinter magister and sentencing a man to imprisonment to jumping in puddles and playing cat's cradle. She can speak of starvation and poverty and torture and in the next breath talk about nursery rhymes and sugar treats.  
  
Lavellan resumes her meandering path back towards the stables and Josephine wonders if she has the time to talk to Lavellan today. She hasn't done a very good job of learning about their Inquisitor, for all that her field of expertise is diplomacy and understanding.  
  
She'd like to start.  
  
-  
  
"If an Inquisitor falls in the desert and there's no one around to hear her, does she make a sound?" Varric ponders.  
  
"That's not funny." Cassandra says. "We lost her. She could be fighting Darkspawn."  
  
"Or a dragon." Bull points out. "You don't think she'd fight one without us, right? She'd save that for us, _right_?"  
  
"She'd be dead." Varric says. "She'd need _us_ to save her from it."  
  
"We _lost_ her." Cassandra repeats, angry and a little confused. "Nothing but sand for as far as the eye can see and we _lost_ her."  
  
"She has a gift." Bull says.  
  
"Or a curse." Varric tacks on, because it's important to explore all your options and keep your mind open to possibilities.  
  
"And I am stuck with you two." Cassandra mourns, pressing her knuckles to her forehead. "Of all the people in the world it had to be you two."  
  
"Aw, Seeker. You're going to hurt my feelings."  
  
"If only I could hurt the rest of you."  
  
"If you two could stop flirting," Bull says, and Cassandra and Varric turn to him at the same time, bursts of incoherent protests exploding from them - which Bull ignores -, "I hear screaming. Not _'ahhh, help I'm dying!'_ screaming, more like _'ahhhh, look at what I found'_ screaming."  
  
Cassandra and Varric stop and listen.  
  
It's faint, but sure enough they hear someone screaming. In a hopefully non-life-threatening way.  
  
Bull hums, tilting his head and then pointing with his sword. "That way."  
  
"Please don't let it be another strange creature." Cassandra whispers under her breath. " _Please_ don't let it be something she wants to bring to Skyhold."  
  
"Please don't let it kill us." Varric mutters. "Please don't let it be something that makes _the Seeker_ kill _me_."  
  
Bull rolls his eye and follows after them and loudly states over them both, "I hope it's a baby dragon."  
  
"Bull, no."  
  
"Bull, _yes_." 


	125. Chapter 125

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers for Jaws of Hakkon in this chapter.

"She's been insisting that we add the title Inquisitor First-Thaw of the Avaar to her official registrar for the past three days, just let them add it in." Cullen says as soon as the Inquisitor is out of earshot. "She's earned it, hasn't she?"  
  
"Yes. I'm not saying I _won't_ add it in." Josephine says, shooting Leliana a betrayed look when she just gets up and leaves. "But as I've been explaining, it's all about presentation. I have to figure out where I can add that title in the order of the ones she's gained so that it doesn't offend."  
  
"She only has _three_ titles." Cullen snorts. "Herald - which is still unofficial, mind -, Inquisitor, and First-Thaw."  
  
"There are others she's gained, too. Ones unofficially given to her but still widely recognized." Josephine says. "And we can't offend anyone by placing the Avaar above them, but we can't offend the Avaar or diminish her by leaving it off either. It's a very delicate balance, Commander. And it may take some time but it will be added eventually."  
  
"It had better. Did you see her when she came back to tell us? Harding says she when she received the title it looked like all of her birthdays and winter festival days were crammed into one."  
  
"According to reports, Lavellan has been having the time of her life in the basin." Josephine says. "Learning about magic and lore, finding an inscription on one of her Forgotten Gods, getting blessings from spirits, speaking to an agur, talking with a bear - "  
  
Cullen closes his eyes and takes a moment to breathe at the mention of the bear.  
  
" - and finding her predecessor."  
  
Ah, yes. When they got that letter from the basin it was hardly legible because of how fast the scout was writing. There were ink splotches and bleed spots all over the paper. What eventually was legible was that the current Inquisitor wasn't leaving the basin for the foreseeable future, she's almost permanently red in the face from smiling, laughing, and screaming, and that this is possibly the happiest and most deranged she's ever been. _Ever_. Also she can't wait to get back and yell at Solas about these things.  
  
Yell in a - she can't control her volume due to excitement way, not in a - I knew it, I knew it, yes, yes, yes kind of way.  
  
The various members of their staff who they informed of the Inquisitor's news for preparations looked like they were going to faint.  
  
And true to form, Lavellan's stag came barreling in through the gates of Skyhold, not even stopping before she was jumping off, half screaming and half singing -  
  
"Solas! Dorian! News! Emergency study meeting! I have something to show you! It's going to be _amazing_!"  
  
\- at the top of her lungs, vaulting over Rocky in the process as she scrambled up the stairs.  
  
And for the past two days, Solas, Dorian, Lavellan - and Vivienne, for a while -  
  
"I have _other_ things to do, dear. I'm sure they'll sort it out on their own. She's quite an intelligent girl."  
  
\- have been locked in one of the smaller study rooms with nothing but raised voices from the other side to signal that they're still alive.  
  
Cole has been bringing them rations.  
  
"As long as the title gets in." Cullen says, because he's had enough with the erasure of history right in front of his face.  
  
"It will. It just takes time and very clever maneuvering."  
  
-  
  
"She misses you already." Cole says and Solas closes his eyes. "You are slipping away from her. A little at a time. You don't think she notices, but she _does_ because she is used to people leaving. She knows. She knows. She _knows_. Missing, missed, moved, moving, motivated. She knows you are leaving her with the shemlen - alone and when she needs you most - but she doesn't know _why_. She thinks she could handle it, bear this alone and quietly and gracefully like you taught her, if only she knew why. Why, why."  
  
"Cole. Please."  
  
"She loves _you_ because you are all she has left to love. She doesn't love many things anymore because even though she kept them safe - hidden, hosted, kept and precious - they were quickened, burned and scattered. No trees to mark the ashes of their bones. She loves _me_ but you keep erasing pieces of me when I try to bring you to her through me. She loves Dorian but it isn't the same as the way she loves - _loses_ \- you. You love her but you don't know if you have it in you left to love. You don't love many things anymore because you tried to keep them safe - lost, losing, slipping through fingers like golden sand and dreams - they were quickened, burned, and scattered. No - "  
  
"Cole. _Stop_." Solas breathes and reaches out to erase -  
  
"You can erase as much of me as you like." Cole says, defiant and burning in ways that make him think of his da'len. "But I will remember. I will always remember because I always see you. Pride, Pride, Pride, Proud Pride did you think that you could hide? She is a star but you are a _sun_. The Passion of - the Pride of - and like a star she will find  you. Link to you. We are a constellation, together we make something. She will always make something even as she loses you - "  
  
Solas reaches out with mana -  
  
"I love you, too." Cole says, looking at Solas with burning eyes. "I need you, too. Hahren, teacher, Wolf who Guides. Redeemer and Freer, _Champion_."  
  
Solas breathes out, feels the air pulled from his lungs.  
  
"Forget." Cole whispers as Solas' mana washes through him. "Forget your shame. And look at what Pride has wrought."  
  
"It is because of what I have wrought that I can _never_ forget." Solas says.  
  
"You aren't looking." Cole's voice grows small and thin.  
  
"I am always looking." Solas replies. "Ir'abelas, Cole. But I must."  
  
-  
  
"There once was a time when you were shy of personal boundaries." Cullen says.  
  
Lavellan blinks at him, "Do you mind?"

Cullen is used to it at this point.  
  
He sighs. "No."  
  
"Then there's no problem." Lavellan resumes fluffing and playing with the fur on his mantle. He's certain she's just avoiding doing something she doesn't want to do.  
  
The pretense is that she's watching the soldiers train. Really she's just playing.  
  
Cullen isn't sure what, exactly, it is she's avoiding but he's fairly sure that his own image is only looking more and more - well. Not exactly what one thinks of when one thinks Commander of anything.  
  
He finds himself extremely fortunate that regardless of what he looks like he has soldiers who respect him enough to still do as he says with little jesting at his behalf.  
  
Ignoring Rylen.  
  
That _prick_.  
  
Cullen gently takes the Inquisitor by the shoulders and moves her to his other side. She takes this as well as she takes most things and seems to lose interest in fluffing his mantle and decides, instead, to go and wander over to watch some of the soldiers teach new recruits - who are still pouring in from every corner of Thedas - how to hold a shield properly.  
  
She could probably best most of those recruits, considering the training she's been receiving. He wonders if he should ask her to start doing the drills with the soldiers as well.  
  
Hm. There's a thought.


	126. Chapter 126

“Why don’t we ever do something _Dorian_ likes?”

“Oh, here we go.” Sera mutters, falling back and moving around to Blackwall’s other side. Blackwall snorts out what could be a laugh or maybe even a disgruntled sigh as Dorian pulls his horse up to match the the trot of the Inquisitor’s stag.

“We go fight dragons because you and the Iron Bull have a strange competition going on.” Dorian says, “We go to the middle of nowhere in order to find ancient artifacts that your _hahren_ dreams into existence, we go prank various people of import for Sera and her Jennies – and don’t even get me started on how you and Cole go prancing about collecting things.”

“I thought you liked coming with us as we prance about.” Lavellan says, humming a little as Dorian continues to rant.

“But what about _Dorian_? You drag Dorian off to the middle of the desert to _burn_ and then decide to cool us down by throwing us into the middle of the Frostbacks or the Emprise and then when you think it can’t get any worse – _bogs_. When is it Dorian’s turn to have fun? When is it _Dorian’s turn to stay home with a nice glass of wine?”_

“More like a tankard of _whine_.” Sera whispers and Blackwall coughs into his fist.

Lavellan continues to hum and Dorian continues to rant.

“You know it’s bad when he gets into the third person.” Sera says. “Don’t know how she stands it. I’d’ve pushed him off a cliff or something.”

“She’s better than all of us combined.” Blackwall says. “A true saint.”

“Dorian’s going to set her on fire and then she’d be a _real_ saint.”

Dorian takes in a deep breath to continue and Lavellan cuts in, smooth and beautiful like Vivienne or Josephine.

“But you come with me anyway even when I can bring Solas or Vivienne along instead.” She says, “And even when I tell you to stay behind you come along anyway, unless you have something very important to do. And you always like it when we go new places. And you like it when we fight Venatori.”

Sera and Blackwall look between Lavellan and Dorian, who’s glaring at the side of her head.

“Exploitation of our friendship.” Dorian says.

“Bullied me into using my influence to let you send terrible passive aggressive messages and gifts to people you didn’t like.” Lavellan replies.

“That was for your own good.” Dorian protests.

Lavellan turns and smiles at him. “You know you volunteered for all of this. You don’t have a contract or anything.”

“The lack of hazard pay is incredibly draining on my accounts.”

Lavellan’s smile practically _glows_.

“You’re still here.”

“Exploitation of our friendship.” Dorian repeats, attempting to kick her. Lavellan laughs and urges her stag out of a trot into a gallop. “And now you’re running away! Terrible! Absolutely _terrible_.”

-

Blackwall looks mostly skeptical as Lavellan tries to guide him over to the – what was it called? The _bog unicorn_?

“He has one of those thingies. A flag you shems like to attach to your mounts.”

It’s half rotten and decayed and a strange color that’s somewhere between brown and green.

“I think he might have been a noble’s horse.”

“It’d explain the sword.” Krem says from where he’s leaning against the side of the wooden fence of Haven’s stables.

“You have a very noble air about you. Bull agrees. So we think that it would probably be best of you rode him. Don’t worry! He’s very gentle! And sweet!” Lavellan tugs on Blackwall’s arm and then whistles, low and long.

The bog unicorn trots out of the stables, eerily quiet and the various harts and horses she’s accumulated part for him. Except for Lavellan’s personal stag who stomps his hindquarters and tosses his head in a way that makes Blackwall think of Cassandra whenever someone makes a pun in her presence.

Lavellan coos and pets the unicorn’s muzzle as it carefully noses at her. Blackwall eyes the sword.

The unicorn does have a crest of some sort emblazoned on its gear but time and dirt and whatever turned the unicorn into – well, the bog unicorn – have made it illegible.

“I’m rather fond of the forder Master Dennet has lent out to me.” Blackwall says.

It’s a lie. The forder is a little rough for his tastes and was probably trained for archery or long distance fighting. Not the fastest horse, either. Though she’s very strong and rather stough. He has a distinct feeling that the horse was retired and borrowed from some noble along the way.

“We have to return the forder to her owners.” Lavellan replies. “Also I think the bog unicorn likes you. He has that look in his eye.”

The bog unicorn doesn’t _have_ eyes.

Blackwall breathes.

“If it’s as you will it, I suppose I can’t say no.”

“I’m not sure what my will has to do with anything but I do want you two to become good friends.” She says and Krem is laughing at him behind her back. That prick. “You two remind me of each other.”

-

“She’s gone.” Leliana says.

“And so is the dunce. Thank every power above.” Morrigan adds in, narrowing her eyes at a wine bottle. “This is terrible.”

“You’ve gotten spoilt by court.” Leliana replies. “You used to like this.”

“You used to have taste.” Morrigan replies, opening the bottle and pouring anyway.

Cullen and Josephine look between them and Cullen is fairly certain that there are identical looks of horror on both their faces.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Cullen says, and his voice sounds incredibly faint, “That we have lost – _not only the Inquisitor_  – but also – “

Cullen can’t actually finish that sentence. His voice does a strange click.

Josephine finishes for him, sounding a touch more wrathful and panicked than he does.

“ _The King of Ferelden_?”

“We haven’t _lost_ them.” Leliana says.

“They simply aren’t in the castle’s walls any longer.” Morrigan says. “They are beyond our sight and hearing. And our headaches.”

“Don’t worry. They have dogs with them.”

Cullen feels a little weak kneed.

“Maker.”

Josephine snatches the wine glass Leliana was reaching for and downs it in one gulp. Cullen sits down on a crate and puts his head into his hands.

“I’m a terrible Fereldan.” Cullen groans.

Leliana laughs. Morrigan titters.

“He helped slay an Archdaemon.” Morrigan says. “He’s inept but he’s _not that_ awful. Though I am sure age has slowed him some.”

“No, no. He still keeps fit.” Leliana says. “He has to, what with Surana – “

Morrigan snorts. “I suppose she wouldn’t stand for it if he did fall out of sorts and was unable to keep up. Good for her, I suppose.”

Josephine is pacing. “We’ve lost two of the most famous and influential people in all of southern Thedas.”

“One of them.” Morrigan corrects. “And Alistair.”

“I lost my King.” Cullen says. “I lost my _Inquisitor_.”

Leliana holds out the entire wine bottle to him. “I think you need this more.”

Cullen takes a drink - “She was right, this is terrible. You were supposed to be the one with class.”

“I take it back.” Leliana pulls the bottle away from him. “You don’t need this if you’re going to insult me like that.”

“What do we do?” Josephine hisses under her breath. “What do we _do_?”

“There’s always the spirit. What’s his name?” Morrigan says.

“Cole.” Josephine and Cullen breathe out together. “ _Cole_.”

Cullen jumps to his feet and rushes towards the stairs -

Josephine sags against the railing.

“Thank the Maker for Cole.”

 


	127. Chapter 127

“I’m fairly certain that the only solution here is to kill her.” Dorian says and Sera nods next to him. “Before we kill each other.”

“We are not killing the Herald of Andraste.” Cassandra says.

“Ah, but in your heart of hearts you considered it.” Dorian says. “Remember that I am her best friend, her most faithful of followers, and her most fashionable and intelligent and glorious – “

Sera kicks his shin.

“ – but you have to admit. About eight dragons in, you begin to entertain _certain fantasies_.”

“I was at that point about four pride demons and a wraith in.” Sera says. “Plus a haunted mansion.”

“I hated that villa.” Cassandra mumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“So our only solution, really.” Dorian says. “Is to quietly and discretely knock her out and then carry her back to Skyhold. I’m almost completely certain that her stag will help us with that.”

They all turn to look at where said stag is picketed. He stares back in an eerie and somewhat reassuring way.

“Completely certain.” Dorian corrects himself. “I am completely and one hundred percent certain that he will help us and it will be glorious and grand and I am so excited to just lie down and sleep without having to worry about sand.”

“I’m a city elf.” Sera says. “I know shit all about sand and rocks and birds and wildlife.”

Cassandra sighs and that’s how Dorian knows they’ve won. He and Sera high five each other without looking.

“If I find her and hold her still will one of you distract her while the other knocks her out?” Cassandra asks.

“Of course. It’s a team effort.” Dorian says.

“That means equal responsibility for people yelling later.” Sera says. “That said – it was all Dorian’s idea and how could we say no to Tevinter?”

-

“Can we not talk about this?” Lavellan asks, squirming a little as everyone stares her down.

“How could we _not_ talk about this?” Varric says, “Poppy, _you proposed marriage to someone_.”

“We can ignore the murder, arson, torture, blackmail, favoritism, and occasional fashion faux pas.” Dorian says, “But not that.”

“Boss. We had this talk.” Bull says.

“We had a lot of talks.” Lavellan says, frowning and turning to Cole and Solas for help, shaping the sign for help with her hands. Cole looks between everyone else and her and disappears. Solas hums and gives her the look he always gives her whenever she asks for hints or clues or blatant cheats to astrariums or puzzles.

“You proposed _marriage_.” Cassandra and Vivienne say together. Vivienne looks entirely amused by the entire ordeal and Cassandra looks appalled.

Cullen looks like he isn’t sure how he feels about it all and is quietly watching the proceedings with Blackwall and the rest of the Chargers.

“Was it a good prospect?” Vivienne asks and Josephine continues to breathe deep and inhale the steam from her stress relieving tea.

This many people probably were not meant to fit in Josephine’s office.

They could move this to the war room – there’d be less chance of escape, too – but really Josephine might not make it and they’ve really only just gotten the map and operations table sorted out perfectly after that time Lavellan fell asleep on it and Josephine accidentally burned half of the map when she sneezed and dropped the candle on her writing board.

“It might have been.” Josephine says. “Andraste above, I don’t know what – I just. Please don’t ask me questions for the next half hour.”

Leliana and Morrigan hum and watch Lavellan like hawks from the sidelines.

No one is quite sure why Morrigan is here – perhaps because she’s bored or maybe to provide moral support for Leliana. Or literal support considering Leliana looks torn between fainting from stress and bursting into a fit of rage.

“I didn’t do it on _purpose_.” Lavellan says, turning her saddest cow eyes onto Blackwall and Cullen because they’re weak for her and everyone knows it.

That’s also why they really don’t have any say here, as everyone else in the room turns on them and makes various _shut up_ motions with their eyes, hands, and weapons.

“It just _happened_.”

“No on just proposes marriage on accident.” Dorian says. “ _No one_. Not even you with all your charm and strange oddities.”

“Yeah, not buying what you’re selling.” Sera says. “Not even for free. Next excuse?”

“It was an _accident!”_ Lavellan says, turning her cow eyes onto Varric because he’s soft for people in general.

Cassandra puts a hand on his shoulder and everyone swears that Varric goes so pale that he could pass for a ghost.

Varric pats her hand. “Poppy, you wish it were an accident so you wouldn’t have to be here right now.”

“Who was it to?”

“The _Crow_.”

Everyone’s heads swing to Leliana, Morrigan, and Josephine who all look various stages of _broken_.

“The _Crow_.” Morrigan repeats, voice low and unreadable as Leliana cracks her knuckles. “Who is no longer present due to safety concerns.”

“The scout said dignitary.” Sera says.

“Of _sorts.”_ Josephine pinches the bridge of her nose.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sera what did I say about asking me questions?” Josephine’s voice hits a pitch of hysterical that makes everyone wince.

“Don’t worry.” Leliana says. “He won’t be a problem any longer. And yes, I believe you when you say it was an accident. That man could trick a rock into wanting to bed him.”

“Woah – _no one said anything about bedding anybody_.” Sera interrupts and the room bursts into noise -

“But I _don’t_ want to bed him!” Lavellan protests, cutting through everyone, and everyone turns from her to Leliana and back again - “I just – _I!”_

Lavellan suddenly jumps to her feet, standing on her chair and starts yelling and gesturing furiously in a mix of elven, Tevene and Qunlat curse words, and the occasional frustrated yowl and spark of fire.

“ _Dread Wolf take him!”_ She finishes, red in the face before taking in a deep breath, stepping down from the chair, and lying down on the floor and taking in deep breaths in the stress-relieving pattern they all recognize from Josephine. Everyone backs up as one to give her air.

“We killed her.” Dorian says in the silence that follows.

“Who’s this guy again?” Varric says, and the three women exchange glances.

Morrigan’s lip curls up in distaste and Josephine puts her head down onto her arms.

Leliana takes in a deep and slow breath before grinding out -

“ _Zevran_.”


	128. Chapter 128

“I, for one, cannot believe what’s happening and am in urgent and dire need of something to top me off. Am I alone in this?”

“No.” Cassandra and Bull say, and Bull pulls out a flask that – well, in any normal person’s hands it would be more of a skin but for him it’s just a flask. He takes a gulp and hands it to Cassandra who takes a concerning long drought and then holds it out to Dorian.

The entire time she looks like _murder_.

Lavellan, in the mean time is yelling at the sky. Dorian doesn’t even blame her.

“Want a drink, love?” Dorian calls out to her, taking a hesitant sip from the flask before coughing. “What _is that?”_

“Does it matter?” Cassandra deadpans. “It does the job.”

He’s willing to bet it’s paint thinner. Stolen paint thinner. Or something.

Bull grins at him and he looks like he’s internally screaming for someone to come and put an end to his life.

Lavellan, in the meantime, is still screaming at the sky throwing in some colorful new explicative she could have only learned from the Chargers. She kicks a rock.

“ _I hate this desert!”_ She screams. “I am lost and I am tired and I have been attacked by random things that see me a mile off and then come find me and _won’t go away_ and there are rifts and Venatori _everywhere_ and _sand. There is sand. I don’t do sand.”_

Followed by some inarticulate screaming that ends with the elf throwing a broken part of a Venatori staff as far as possible like a spear.

“Agh!”

“At least we know she’s real now. No one can ever be that happy to go the middle of nowhere so often.” Dorian says.

Cassandra grinds her teeth. Dorian _feels_ her doing it from two feet away.

Dorian says nothing and takes a deeper drink from the flask.

Bull hums. “Probably should stop her from overexerting herself.”

“After this.” Cassandra says, stomping over the sand – because sand doesn’t allow one to walk normally, not when you’re wearing how many pounds of armor and are dressed in leather – next to Lavellan and screaming with her.

“We should probably stop them from alerting the entire desert that we’re here.” Bull says.

“Are you going to do it? Because I’m not.”

-

“This is probably the best present she’s ever gotten from you.” Dorian says. “Or anyone, if I’m being honest.”

Vivienne hums, waving her fingers at the Inquisitor who’s still laughing and exclaiming over said present and running around with excitement because underneath that sometimes stern and respectable facade is a little ball of bouncing light. Similar to a ball made of fiber, the kind you bounce around as a child.

“Where did you even get it?”

“Does it matter where as long as she’s pleased?”

Dorian titers.

“Getting soft de Fer?”

“As if the entire hold hasn’t seen you carrying her to bed or trailing after her with things to eat and helping her with all of her little assignments?”

“That’s different. Everyone _knows_ I’m her favorite.”

“Debatable if you’ve seen the way she treats that stag of hers.”

“Hush. I’m her favorite of the things that walk on two legs.” Dorian waves a hand, ignores the way Vivienne hums behind her teacup. “But _you_? You’ve been strict and about as warm as an ice wall to her since you _summoned_ her to your abode, de Fer. This is out of character.”

Vivienne raises an eyebrow. “Is it truly?”

Lavellan cackles and she’s gotten a _baby_ deer. He has no idea how Vivienne did it. But she’s gotten her hands on a soft little fawn with spots and a little button nose and _everything_.

The deer, in the true fashion of every living creature that wasn’t infected by lyrium, the blight, or any other disease or magic, became attached to her the moment the two met eyes and is prancing around with her in complete joy and admiration.

“Is it going to stay that small forever?” Because Dorian is well aware of the strange fascination with making miniature species of things exists in various courts around the world – when he was leaving Minrathous they were working on miniature dracolisks – and the deer is rather small.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Vivienne says. “Of course she’ll grow bigger. in this time of crisis one cannot afford to have such a small and hapless animal in a building of war and business. Though I suppose a miniature deer would be nice to get her once all of this is over and things are set to rights.”

“Spoiling her.”

“Giving her an unexpected surprise in order to remind her that her efforts are not as thankless as they would seem.” Vivienne corrects.

“Spoiling her.” Dorian hums.

-

“I’ve never thought about it until now.” Varric says. “But it suddenly occurs to me that I need to introduce this kid so some people from Kirkwall.”

“No.” Cullen says and Bull looks between the two of them. “ _No.”_

“You’d have a great time.” Varric says, ignoring the increasingly loud and urgent protests Cullen is trying to interrupt him with, going as far as to attempt to physically shut Varric up by covering his face. Varric ignores these attempts.

“No. Because Cassandra would _kill you_. And if not I might do it on accident.” Cullen says, “You and your friends from Kirkwall could give anyone _ulcers_.”

Bull hums.

“Sounds like they’d get along with my boys.”

“Right! It’d be a party.”

“Kill me now and spare me this torture.” Cullen groans into his hands.

“I mean, you’ve got Dalish and we’ve got Merrill. Probably have a lot to talk about. And then there’s Broody – he’d probably get along with Grim and Krem just fine. Aveline seems like she’d get along with the rest of them just fine, too. I mean, did you see the Inquisitor’s face when she saw Hawke’s dog? Can you imagine her face if she met any of the other guys?”

“Can you imagine _Cassandra’s_ face if she met any of the others?” Cullen says.

“You bet I can and it’s novel worthy.” Varric says. “Entire epics.”

“Well now you have to invite them over sometime.” Bull says. “When things aren’t going to shit and stuff. Just so I can meet them and see this epic worthy face of the Seeker’s.”


	129. Chapter 129

"Was her back always that tall?" Varric asks and Blackwall looks at him.  
  
"No." Blackwall says, because she wasn't born to lead, she wasn't born to be this thing they have made her into. But sometimes things are shaped. You shape a try by binding it to another. And so, you turn the curve into a straight and the straight into a curve.  
  
She was born for forests and hunts, for the wild dark and the verdant heat. She was born for silent mountains and echoing valleys, the gaps between shadows and the eyes in trees.  
  
And here she stands, leading them, fist raised in victor in glittering gold. Here she stands. Metal and silk and all that glitters.  
  
This girl - _their_ girl. Their girl wasn't born to be theirs, but she is now because she was _made_.  
  
Some people have to be made.  
  
Her back is so small and narrow, child and bird and fair thing. But it is reliable. Dependable. Frightening. Awe inspiring.  
  
She did not always stand so tall, so strongly. She did not always stand like this.  
  
And now that she does, she can't ever go back to eyes in trees and footsteps on dew. Leather and cotton rope, beads of bone and charms of feathers.  
  
She is, now and forever, the gold of dragon fire, the red of lyrium, the green of the Veil.  
  
She stands, glittering, before all of them and Blackwall will follow their girl until he dies without any regrets because he is part of the reason she is the _Lady_ she is today.  
  
They all made her as she has made them.  
  
Lavellan stands, and once - once she was a girl hiding in the snow, playing with nugs and playing at being something.  
  
Now. _Now_.  
  
Things have changed.  
  
They will always change.  
  
They are still changing.  
  
-  
  
"What does it mean?" She says and Cole looks between her and the stone and the notebook - not _hers_ \- in her hands.  
  
"Goodbye, I _love_ you, I will miss you, be careful, move on. Dareth shiral." Cole says. "Da'len, da’lath, _lethallin_. It means many things."  
  
"But he said none of them."  
  
"He says them like _this_."  
  
She traces the half conjured image with her eyes.  
  
"Did he mean those things - or are you guessing – putting together pieces to make me feel better?"  
  
"Trapped in the stone, the hesitance of a brush. Clever da'len, she will know. Will she? I have hidden so much, _taken_ so much. What can she do with the pieces I leave for her? I left _for_ her. I _leave_ for her. For them. For all of them, our people, _the_ people. Not yet, it is not yet time. It is my fate. She must survive this. She will. For _her_."  
  
"I don't know these images." She says, pointing. "There was no sword. No dragon - aside from Corypheus'. This section. It doesn't match the others."  
  
"He always knew you'd win - he could have painted that but it was - it didn't feel right somehow." Cole takes the notebook from her hands, gently carrying its weight in his palms. "He wanted to leave something of the future for you, _with_ you, because he couldn't give you the future you deserved. He took it all away."  
  
Lavellan knows better than to say she doesn't understand.  
  
"He made me forget." Cole whispers. Small and tired and frightened.  
  
She looks at him. He seems so much changed from when they first met. She doesn’t know if she knows him any better than then. But she loves him. Even if she’s only glanced at the surface of _Cole_  – Compassion – she knows that she loves him. He is the one who will stay, she thinks. Out of all of them. Cole will stay with her for as long as she needs him. Forever. Always.

He will not leave her. Even when she ages and withers and fades away into trees and dirt and ash – Cole will be her friend.  
  
"But you have to remember." Cole says. "Something bigger than names, bigger than bodies. Something bigger than Compassion and Cole and Corypheus. You have to remember something bigger than time and blood. _You are_ the only one who can. He made me forget but I left it with you because he thought you would never remember but I know that you never really _forget_."  
  
Lavellan frowns and Cole looks into her eyes.  
  
" _Remember_."  
  
-  
  
"That's not a horse."  
  
"No." Lavellan says, incredibly fond as she gazes at said not-horse. She sighs like a maiden in love.  
  
"That is not your normal stag." Cassandra says. Said normal stag is in the next stall over, watching the proceedings of the stable like a lord watching his servants carry out their tasks to his standards.  
  
"No." She reaches out and strokes the stag's nose.  
  
"What is it?" Cassandra asks, because it had charged through the gates of Skyhold like a bull on a rampage then forced its way into the stables - had a staring contest with the Herald's stag, and then let itself into the stall next to it.  
  
"The Pride of Arlathan." Lavellan coos.  
  
Cassandra is assuming this means something.  
  
"Rare." Dennet supplies, as he walks by.

They have to rearrange the entire stable to accommodate the new charge - the mounts have attitudes and can only be placed in certain order. It's something like a puzzle. None of them want to be too near the bog unicorn, only a few are capable of tolerating the dracolisk -dracolisks, _plural_ , because she found more of them - and some of the harts scare the horses and some of the horses pick on the harts and the dracolisks will attempt to eat the - the giant _nugs_ given half a chance. And the – the Pride of Arlathan seems satisfied only in _this_ particular stable and next to Lavellan’s Royal Sixteen.

According to Lavellan, the two have struck an _accord_.  
  
"Of course." Cassandra says, moving aside to make room for the Ferelden Forder as Dennet leads her to her new stall, between a dracolisk and a nuggalope. The forder bares her teeth at the dracolisk a she passes.  
  
She swears that the Herald's stag is teaching the others _attitude_.  
  
"He's so _beautiful_." Lavellan sighs.  
  
"Does he have a name?"  
  
Cassandra refuses to refer to it as The Pride of Arlathan every time.  
  
"Of course he has a name, everyone must have a name." Lavellan says. "He just hasn't told me yet."  
  
"Of _course_." Cassandra sighs. "What should we refer to him, in the mean time?"  
  
"Solas." Lavellan says. The stag's ears prick forward. "Oh, you like that? I meant it as a joke because - well. I'll explain later, but Solas it is, then."  
  
Lavellan's hart, in the next stall over, tosses his head in what Cassandra is dimly appalled to realize she understands in an _amused_ way.  
  
Cassandra has clearly spent too much time in Lavellan's company if she can understand the hart's thoughts by head gestures. It’s a _stag._  
  
"Welcome to the family Solas." Lavellan says, holding out her hands. Solas dips his head and allows her to rub his ears. "I'm sure you'll get along with everyone beautifully. Be sure to set an example for them. You're the Pride of Arlathan, after all."  
  
Cassandra turns away to continue helping Dennet move mounts, and pauses to give the dracolisk that was about to bite her a look.  
  
"Don't." She says, because it's bad enough that they drool acid. it’s bad enough that she has to spend an entire morning and probably afternoon re-arranging mounts in an elaborate puzzle. She isn't putting up with losing one of her favorite tunics on top of that as well.


	130. Chapter 130

"There used to be a time when you didn't know anything." Dorian says. "I miss those times because - frankly - it was so much easier to trick you into doing my bidding. Mostly, leaving me alone and going to bother someone else so I can watch them suffer."  
  
"Lies. I never bother you." Lavellan says. "You _adore_ me."  
  
"You also didn't have that attitude." Dorian says.  
  
"I get it from you."  
  
"I know, I've brought this upon myself. _Terrible_." Dorian sighs. "Now look at you, all grown up and back talking left, right and center. Except for when it counts."  
  
"Have _you_ ever back-talked Leliana?"  
  
Dorian lifts a finger, considers it - "Point taken. I concede."  
  
"Thank you." Lavellan says. "I'm not really _that_ different."  
  
"You couldn't read before this." Dorian says, "Now you can -  not only read common and ancient elven script - but also smatterings of Tevene, Qunlat, Nevarran, and are quite good with Orlesian when they aren't being metaphorical. You can also do taxes. I have absolutely _no_ idea where you picked that up from, but you know how to do taxes."  
  
"Someone has to help Josephine."  
  
Dorian refrains from pointing out that half of Josephine's stress and worries stem from Lavellan being in her general vicinity while working for longer than an hour.  
  
"The point is there was _growth_. Not much in the height area - at all - and thankfully not much at all in the width area - I'm going to attribute it to muscle and a nice layer of necessary fat to insulate against living on top of a mountain - but, in general, _character_."  
  
"I'd say the same for you, but you definitely grew in the width area." Lavellan ducks a swat as Dorian closes his eyes and mutters under his breath.  
  
"You used to be sweet! And _charming_! A little darling! Absolutely awful!"  
  
"I'm still sweet and charming and a little darling." Lavellan says. "Vivienne calls me a little darling all the time."  
  
"The only thing that hasn't changed about you is your stag." Dorian says. "He's as grumpy as ever."  
  
"He's not grumpy, he's just shy."  
  
"Of course. And I'm married to the Viscount of Kirkwall, while we're at it."  
  
-  
  
"Hahren."  
  
Solas is pulled from his sleep when he feels her mana pushing at him, pushing and pulling and tugging - it is not fear or danger, it does not feel like that. Rather - excitement? Impatience.  
  
"Hahren, come _on_ , you can dream _later_!"  
  
Solas considers feigning sleep but he probably should not tease his da'len so.  
  
"And why would I need to dream later rather than now?" Solas asks, keeping his eyes closed. He can imagine the look on her face - the brief widening of her eyes, then the momentary burst of a smile from excitement, then the crumple as she returns to impatience.  
  
" _Hahren_!" She tugs at him and she may be young and strong, but he is significantly heavier and very good at being stubborn deadweight. "Come on, Hahren, up, up, _up_! I already woke Dorian up, and it wasn't this hard! And that’s _Dorian._ "  
  
"Why did you wake Dorian up?"  
  
"The same reason why Cole woke me up!"  
  
"Why did Cole wake you up?"  
  
"Griffons!"  
  
Solas opens his eyes for that because -  
  
"Griffons?" He frowns at her. "What of them?"  
  
She continues pulling at his arm, practically bouncing out of her own skin before she sings out -  
  
"He found them!"  
  
"Found what?"  
  
" _Griffons_!"  
  
Solas blinks.  
  
"They are extinct."  
  
"No they aren't!" Lavellan trills, voice sprawling through the room as she sings out her delight. "Cole found some and we're going to get them!"  
  
"Is it even morning?'  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
Solas sighs. "Perhaps you should plan this out more. You cannot go looking for griffons after sneaking out of your own castle, Lavellan. It's irresponsible."  
  
"The _more_ irresponsible thing would be to allow those griffons to wander, lost and alone and confused in the wild. We have to protect them. Keep them safe. They're the last of their kind - maybe."  
  
Solas' lips twitch upwards.  
  
"Ah, yes. But you are the _only_ one of your kind." He sits up, "You ought to wait for the rest of the hold to wake up - " He holds up a hand, "On their own, da'len. Don't wake up the entire castle. Wait for morning, tell your advisors, make a plan, and go. You wouldn't want to spoil your first meeting with griffons, would you?"  
  
Lavellan bounces on her toes.  
  
"You'll come with me to meet the griffons, yes?"  
  
"Yes." Solas says. "It would be most interesting to see them."  
  
Lavellan hops from foot to foot -  
  
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, ma serannas, hahren."  
  
Solas hums and gets up to get dressed - because he has no doubt in his mind that she's going to be able to convince her advisors to let her go. And he should get some of his work out of the way for when they do leave for griffons.  
  
He is somewhat looking forward to seeing Cassandra's face when she is informed of this new development.  
  
-  
  
  
"Hey Sera?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What sound does a dead dwarf make when he's kicked off a rampart?"  
  
"I dunno. What?"  
  
"I don't know either, but we'll find out soon enough."  
  
"Very funny." Varric says.  
  
"You're the one who brought the Champion of Kirkwall to Skyhold." Sera says. "Anyone could've seen this is how it was gonna play out. Cassandra bursting a vein, you dead, Lavellan confused, a dog barking."  
  
Krem snickers.  
  
"Neither of you are funny." Varric says. "And keep it down, would you? I'm trying to lay low."  
  
"Lay low in a _tavern_?"  
  
"Smart."  
  
"The Seeker never goes in the tavern unless - " Varric pauses and groans as realization dawns on him.  
  
"Unless she's hunting for someone. Usually the Inquisitor, but occasionally someone she needs to throttle."  
  
"Dead dwarf walking." Sera calls out.  
  
Varric rubs his temples.  
  
"At least the Inquisitor is excited." Krem says. "She's been showing off the Champion's dog to the pups in the kennel. Saying that's how they're gonna be like when they're all grown."  
  
"Sweet." Sera snorts. "Hey Varric, could I have your crossbow when you're dead? I'd treat'er right. Swear."  
  
"No." Varric says. "When I die I'm bringing Bianca with me."  
  
Sera clicks her tongue.  
  
Varric sighs. "You can have my manuscripts."  
  
"What'd I want with those?" Sera rolls her eyes.  
  
"I'll have you know those are worth a lot to my adoring fans!"  
  
"Will they save you from Cassandra?" Krem asks.  
  
"No, why?"  
  
"Because she's coming this way and she's got soldiers standing outside the windows." Bull supplies from where he's been sitting. "My advice? Go up and run on the ramparts."  
  
"Advice noted and taken. You know where I can find my dignity while you're at it?"  
  
"Probably should check the latrines."  
  
"Thanks, Tiny. You're a real help, you know that?" 


	131. Chapter 131

“She would forgive you, anything, but she will never forget.” Cole finds him halfway down the Frostbacks, and Solas is so very, very tired. “She needs her hahren.”

“Every da’len learns to stand on their own.”

“She has stood for too long. What arms tell her to lay down hers?”

“She has Dorian, and Varric, to name a few.” Solas says, and he turns out and pulls at the Fade, momentarily anchoring Cole to him. “And she has you.”

“You left me for her.” Cole says. “You wanted us to stay together, because you knew she’d need me. Compassion.”

“And you need her.” Solas says. “You build upon each other, synergize in ways I did not foresee. You are good for each other.”

Cole is very quiet. “We all miss you. Even Dorian.”

Solas can’t help the sharp laugh that bursts past his lips. It feels good to laugh.

“Cole, go back to her.” Solas says.

“Will you come with me?”

“No.”

Cole frowns, and Solas can feel his distress.

“But – but I don’t know how to fix this without you.” Cole says. “You are the thing, you are unbroken and she is unbroken but it is also broken and to fix it I need to bring you back because she has lost everything and she is losing everything, she will _lose_ – “

Solas sucks in a breath. “Cole _stop_.”

“Please.” Cole whispers, fervent, “Please come home. I need to say goodbye. Where are you? Why does not one let me say goodbye? Was I wrong? Was I not a good enough da’len? Unworthy? _A mistake. An accident. Aberration – “_

Cole’s voice takes on a twist, an accent that makes Solas’ mind flash to the temple, the fighting, the lyrium, the pull of magic so familiar that it made his heart _ache_ -

“No.” Solas grasps Cole by the shoulders. “You must – no. She was never that. _Never._ That is – “

“Tell her.” Cole says, hands fisting in Solas’ cloak. “Tell her. She needs to know from you. _Because you matter._ You are fallen and you are rising, you are in between and hovering. Suspended. But you are steady, still, staid – never solitary. You were never solitary. She has us but she also needs to have you, too. To say goodbye, at least. Everyone leaves, it is the way of things- she _knows_ , she is a Keeper, she knows loss, she knows the feeling of clansmen leaving and never returning, the feeling of babies slipping through her hands, she knows how to say goodbye, to wish them well. _Dareth shiral_. Let her go, let her go because you are taking pieces of her with you and she wants to follow.”

Solas breathes.

“In dreams.”

-

“I know it doesn’t mean very much to you.” Lavellan says, so quiet and so soft that Dorian almost doesn’t hear her over the haze of heat and anger and _hurt_ that fills his head like so many clouds. “But I love you. It matters who you love because they need to love you back the way you deserve to be loved. It matters who you love because you love a person for who they are and what they can be. I love you. I am not your father or your mother, I am no one from nowhere, but I see you, Dorian Pavus. And I have known you for months. And I can tell you that I love you and the person you can be.”

Dorian swallows, his throat clicks – dry and painful – and the sun shines over them in an irritatingly _bright_ and _gentle_ manner when what he really wants is thunder and lightning and hot, hot wind.

“You don’t even know me that well.” Dorian says because a few months here, in the south – where he is Tevinter and Pavus and Altus and mage and noble and scholar in pieces – is nothing compared to who he is in Tevinter. He is at the same time free and bound.

She doesn’t touch him and that’s probably a good thing because Dorian doesn’t know what he’d do if she did.

“I learn you a little more every time we speak.” She says. “And I love the you who I am learning. I am more in love with you more and more every time.”

Dorian presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and breathes in slow and deep.

“You are too good to me. It is undeserved on my part.”

“Am I not the one who decides how much kindness I am to give?”

“You are a terrible judge of character.”

“All things considered, Dorian, I have you for that.”

Dorian laughs and it hurts.

“He tried to – he wanted to – he _wants to_   - “ Dorian’s said it before but for some reason the word is a razor when it comes out of his mouth this time around. “ _Change me_.”

Lavellan is quiet.

And then she breathes, and he can feel her mana wash over him. Gentle, like a barrier – but different. Cool and calm and warm all at once, like she’s pulling him against her, like silk and sea breeze.

“It is in the nature of people to change. It is because we are mortal and subject to the greatest change of death, we change slowly, every day and all the time in preparation for that final change. Sometimes these changes are for the better. Sometimes they are for the worse. Sometimes they come from necessity, or are driven by others’ actions towards us. However they are always, _always_ subject to our own conscious.”

“And then there’s _blood magic_.” Dorian spits.

“I don’t think it would have worked, Dorian. I just don’t think it would have. Your will is stronger than anyone’s.”

That’s not how blood magic _works_ , he thinks.

But he turns to her and she’s sitting next to him with that beautiful look on her face that  makes him so _ashamed_ and so _angry_ and so damned proud to be here with her.

“How are you so _kind_?”

She smiles. Like a poppy blooming.

“Because I love.”


	132. Chapter 132

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spoilers for the end of Trespassers.
> 
> To clarify, this Lavellan did not romance anyone.
> 
> (Unless u count her accidental proposal to Zevran a chapter or so back l o l).

She rests her hand against his face – holding, held, holding onto him. Holding him.

She held the world and more, something bigger than the world, bigger than words and time and space and understanding in her hands but she has one hand now, so she made that hand big enough to hold it all. She forced the world into her remaining hand, she made it fit for her.

Cole looks into her eyes and she is heavy, heavier, heaviest. She’s sinking into something and something is sinking into her.

She is still bright, so bright like the Passion of – like the stars and the suns and the spaces they leave on the back of your eyelids. Cole sometimes has trouble reading her because she’s so bright, beckoning, brilliant. But there are black spots now, black flickers. Like when you stare at the sun.

She is deep. Deeper. Deepening. Something is sinking into her – infinitely. Without bottom or end.

She is so deep, not even the songs can touch her.

Inside her there is a stronger song, that echoes and rebounds and builds and tunes and makes her bones into trees and her eyes into leaves and her hair into clouds. There is a song in her that will never stop even if it goes quiet.

The song of everywhere else will never reach her, not that deep place.

She’s shedding layers and layers and layers, casting them off. Like cobwebs and fallen leaves.

She holds him with the hand that holds the world – _no one knows Cole, no one must know. I will keep them safe._  – and she looks at him with eyes that are bottomless and eternal because she is real. She is the most real thing Cole has ever known, the Pride of – has ever known.

She makes herself real and she makes the rest of them real.

They didn’t know they were real until she took them and named them.

_You are the Iron Bull. You are Dorian. You are Cullen. You are Leliana. You are who you choose to be._

You are Compassion and you are Cole. You are _lethallin_.

And you are _mine_.

Go forth and _multiply_.

Because she makes them real they make everyone around them real -

Cullen says to a man who wants the song so badly, who misses it and cries for it and wants to go home to it - “You are more. You can do this. You are not alone.”

The Iron Bull says to a man who was born different, _you are home with us_. You are _all_ home with us.

“Lathallin.” Cole says, and in a language that isn’t a language but something deeper and farther and vaster than anything anyone around them knows -

She says -

“I love you. You are my friend.” Her hand slides down over his chest. “You have a home here.”

“Yes.” Cole says. “You don’t need me for this hurt. It is – “

The hurt is like a hole, large and widening and gaping and hungry. But she is more than the hole and she is ever growing.

“It is beyond anyone.” Cole says. “You have made it part of you. It is the Breach in you that nothing can close.”

“Nothing. That is my path, that is _my_ burden.” She says.”Thank you for staying with me for so long, friend, spirit brother. Go and come home to us when you wish it. Heal people. Heal this world. Show him, show our hahren. _Show him how beautiful we can be_.”

Cole takes her face in his hands and he can never hope to hold the Passion of – , the stars and the suns and moons and the oceans and the skies.

He slowly opens his arms and pulls her close. She is warm and soft and so real and unchangeable and permanent.

“I don’t know how to help you.” Cole says and her arms hold him and he is real and unchangeable and permanent – here, like this. And even if he did change she would still open her arms for him and say welcome home my friend and they will always be friends and Cole thinks that she is the world’s friend and the Pride of- ‘s friend even if he doesn’t understand it. “Thank you. You help the hurt and you help me. I wish I could help you. But I’m here, where you are, even when I’m not because you have always been the Passion.”

She smiles. “ _Dareth shiral_ , _lethallin_.”

-

“This is you.” Bull says, looking at her and he knew. He always knew. There was something deeper to her. Flashes of it, glimpses of it were touched on. It’s that iron thing that told him that it was Hissrad who was the lie – now, ill fit for him and out-grown – and that the Iron Bull was real. It’s that Keeper kind of voice that they’ve seen so few times. Something deep like a vein of metal ore, an underground river – magma.

“This has always been me.” She says, easy and steady as she looks up into him. A still pool without a single ripple. “Are you with me?”

Bull looks at her and she is so deep that he doesn’t think anyone – maybe not even Cole or Solas or Dorian – have seen all of those depths. No one has except maybe that Mahanon guy she sometimes talks about.

There’s something dark in those depths because there always is.

And she’s not that glittering and shining as she was when he first met her. She’s at home in her armor, now. Metal and leather and buckles and plates and all. Her staff is different. Her magic is different. That omnivorous saarebas – she’s taken pieces of them all into her, sucked them into her dark and deep and made them hers.

She’s not that girl he  met who knew nothing.

She’s still bright and cheerful and things roll off of her like water on a duck.

But she’s not that same girl.

He’d follow her anyway.

She’s good people. She’s _his_ people. And he’s _her_ people.

“Of course.” Bull says. “I’m your frontline body guard, right? Someone’s gotta watch your back.”

She smiles, slow and bright and clever and happy.

(This kid? This kid who’ll always be Bull’s kid like one of his Chargers – she loves him. And he doesn’t know what the fuck he did to be worthy of it. And he doesn’t know what to do with how much he’s fairly certain he loves her back. She’s one of his people.)

And he knows this girl enough to know that when she slowly sways on her feet that she’s about to jump and he holds out his arms and catches her and she hugs his neck and kisses his cheek.

“You’re my guy, right, the Iron Bull?” She says.

“That’s right – dragons, Venatori, nobles, assassins, weird ancient elven stuff, demons, even the fucking Qun? I’m your guy. And you’re my favorite saarebas boss.”


	133. Chapter 133

“ _You!”_ The Inquisitor _yowls_ and both Solas and Blackwall have to lunge to catch her as she jumps at the man across the room, lightning at her fingertips. She breaks out into a lot of Dalish cursing and pointing, causing Solas’ expression to go from surprised to as close to murderous as anyone has ever seen.

“This is he?” Solas says as Lavellan continues to try and climb _over_ Blackwall to set the elf across the room on fire.

“Ah, worry not, my fine friends. I am quite used to having beautiful creatures such as the Inquisitor throw themselves at me.” The elf says, winking and causing the Inquisitor to hiss and swear.

“You _tricked me!”_ She snaps. “And everyone _got mad! And you got away with it!”_

“I assure you, most beautiful Herald, your most lovely of spy masters most certainly never lets me get away with _anything_.”

“Don’t I know you?” Cullen says, hand resting on the hilt of his sword – he’s still not sure if he’s supposed to be attacking, judging from the Inquisitor’s reaction, or maybe helping Blackwall hold her back.

The elf turns to him and smiles.

“And I you, I never forget a pretty face. And although the years have been quite long – “

“ _Enough_.” Leliana cuts in. “This is Zevran. A friend of mine. He was at the Circle, Cullen. That’s why you recognize him.”

Cullen’s face cycles through an impressive cycle of surprise, wariness, shame, embarrassment, confusion, and plain weariness.

“He tricked me!” Lavellan says, evidently having settled down after Solas and Blackwall said some things to her. Blackwall is still holding her though.

Zevran winks at her.

“Leliana, my friend, you were right when you said I’d enjoy her company. And enjoy it I did.”

Lavellan hisses through her teeth.

“Did you not enjoy how we spent our night together?”

“Zevran.” Leliana says. “Stop before you have the entire hold after your neck. Even Surana wouldn’t be able to save you then. Not that she would.”

“Ah yes. I do suppose that our Warden would watch on and laugh.” Zevran says, humming as he imagines it. “Do you suppose she’d help them?”

“Knowing her,” Leliana can’t help smiling as she also imagines it, “She’d be leading the charge.”

“Yes, that is more like her.” Zevran says.

“Can we get back to explaining the part where he tricked her?” Cullen asks because he’s been there when Leliana and her old friends reminisce about the _good old days_ of the Fifth Blight and they could go on for _hours_.

“Just a matter of word play, I assure you.” Zevran makes a sweeping bow. “Your Herald’s virtue is as safe and intact as it was before she entered my presence. Whichever state that was. I apologize for the distress my play has placed upon the most holy and divine Inquisitor. And I ask her not to look so dour – it does not suit someone of such young and vibrant beauty.”

Lavellan looks like she’s considering knocking Blackwall out – and knowing Blackwall, he wouldn’t fight back particularly hard so she would most likely succeed – in order to get at Zevran.

Solas turns and whispers something in her ear and she goes limp, cheeks puffing for a moment before she lets out a long sigh.

“I accept his apology but I want someone with me whenever I talk to him from now on.” She says. “And I can’t be held responsible for him anymore. I want an apology from everyone for _yelling at me_ when it _wasn’t my fault_.”

Solas takes her arm and slowly guides her from the room, Blackwall walking after her to make sure she doesn’t change her mind and double back.

“She’s a force of nature isn’t she?” Zevran says. “Alistair has met her, no? His thoughts?”

“She’s a delight to him.” Leliana laughs. “You should have seen Morrigan’s face.”

“Perhaps I still can.” Zevran muses. “You think she would react in a much similar fashion if she saw me?”

“Morrigan might actually kill you.”

“If she can catch me.”

-

“He’s sweet.”

“He needs a bath.” Josephine says as she kneels down next to Lavellan in front of the fireplace.

“He’s a _puppy_.”

“He’s a wild animal and needs to be relocated immediately.” Cullen says, standing next to Varric.

Lavellan coos as she scratches the wolf’s belly, nodding when Josephine extends a hesitant hand to pet the wolf also.

“You’re supposed to be the voice of reason.” Cullen says, turning to Solas who’s been watching from the entryway to the rotunda with Dorian.

“I see no harm in this.” Solas says, smile playing at the corners of his eyes. For the past few days he’s been unusually _peppy_ and no one can figure out why. “After all, she will release him upon his full recovery. She has no intent to keep him in Skyhold. Do you, da’len?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that.” Lavellan says, “He wouldn’t be happy here.”

“He likes it here but he likes it out there more.” Cole says. “Free and running with friends and family. Wind and moon and sun and squirrels.”

The wolf has taken a strong liking to both Cole and Lavellan, and oddly enough Dorian – which is why Dorian is hiding - “I am not _hiding_.” – behind other people.

(“Some of us prefer _not_ to be tackled by wolves frothing at the mouth.”)

“Wild animals belong in the wild.”

“And we’ll take him back to that wild once he’s healed.” Lavellan replies, scratching the wolf’s ear as his tongue lolls out. “Didn’t you know that wolves are sacred to the Dalish? What would we do if we treated him poorly and he told Fen’Harel? And we all know that the Emerald Knights had wolves who watch over their graves eternal. They’re _good_. Good dogs. Right?”

The wolf smiles up at her.

Solas covers the lower half of his face and just nods along.

“She’s right. Wolves are highly intelligent, similar to crows. They remember who treats them well and who leaves them in their times of need. There is no harm in being kind, in this case.”

“Unbelievable.” Varric mutters. “I can’t wait to write Daisy about this.”

“Our lives are exorbitant fictions made up by some higher power at their whims. This is truly the only explanation for any of this.” Dorian says. “Somewhere, someone is laughing at us.”

“Good dog.” Lavellan says, hugging the wolf who just wags his tail a little.

“Astounding. Truly.”


	134. Chapter 134

"A word of caution before you meet the Inquisitor." Leliana says as the Crow makes himself at home - poking around her notes and messages, playfully shuffling them around and inspecting the occasional token or item brought back with her messenger birds. "She is kind and thinks the best of people. She talks and can get carried away quite easily. I know that the urge to tease her will be there, but she's very much like Alistair in that as much as you may want to tease her, you _shouldn't_. It's a little too much like tricking a puppy into something awful. You shouldn't."  
  
"Ah, yes. I know." Zevran says, smiling as he pokes a tentative finger through the bars of one of the cages and runs it over a crow's breast. Sayings about birds of a feather. "The temptation was _irresistible_. I might have upset her terribly, though. I assure you, my lady Nightingale, I will make it up to your darling and fair Inquisitor with the most utmost of haste."  
  
Leliana closes her eyes because of _course_ Zevran wouldn't immediately come to her when he came to Skyhold to check in. No, that would make too much sense.  
  
Of course Zevran went to find the Herald. And of course he teased her before he could be officially introduced.  
  
"What did you do?" Leliana asks.  
  
"Oh, I'm certain you'll find out soon enough." Zevran replies. "You are, after all, the Left Hand of the Divine, no? Such simple things as this shouldn't be hard for you to find out at all."  
  
"This is why Surana says her face got stuck." Leliana tells him as he takes a seat, sprawling out and smiling at her. "And now you're out to ruin _my_ good looks too? A bard has to be some sort of beautiful, you know."  
  
"Your beauty is an eternal, dancing and golden, flame." Zevran says, "One that I am drawn to like a moth at lost and wandering in the night."  
  
"Will this make me want to kill you?"  
  
"Most likely yes. But you'd have to _catch_ me first." Zevran winks. "And being caught is something I have been working to improve on for over ten years, my friend. It will not be as easy as the first time."  
  
"An Antivan Crow caught by two fledgling wardens, a witch of the wilds, and a dog." Leliana sighs. "I would _hope_ it isn't as easy."  
  
-  
  
"Good news." Varric says, making himself comfortable in a chair he must have brought over from the main hall - it's too nice to have been here originally. Here as in Cullen's office. "And bad news."  
  
Cullen waits because this is _Skyhold_ and this is _Varric_ and they have terrible luck all around.  
  
Varric sighs when Cullen doesn't say anything.  
  
"And then there's the terrible news." And _there_ it is.  
  
"What's the terrible news?" Cullen asks, putting down his pen in favor of giving Varric his full attention. He's learned that in his interactions with the Inquisitor's various friends, allies, and confidants that have been ominously named her Inner Circle by everyone not in it, giving anything less than his full attention will result only in things he can really only blame himself for.  
  
"And this is why we're always telling you to lighten up, Curly. Always focused on the bad. Where's your optimism? Your _hope_? Your silver lining to every cloud?"  
  
"I'm hoping the good news is enough to help me recover from the other two." Cullen deadpans. Varric pauses, shifting in his seat before making a face.  
  
"Well that might be a little _too_ much optimism, there."  
  
"The _news_ , Varric."  
  
"Terrible news is that my letters about Hawke finally made it to the rest of my friends and gotten responses."  
  
Cullen puts a hand on his forehead and breathes. The breathing exercises Josephine taught all of them are coming in as useful much too often to be healthy.  
  
"The bad news?"  
  
"Fenris is the one who got chosen to figure out this entire thing. Which means he's coming to Skyhold."  
  
Cullen makes the sort of sound he's certain only comes from dying seagulls.  
  
"And there's _good_ news to this?"  
  
"They talked Isabela out of coming with him." Varric says. "And I consider that a true win, Curly. I mean - could you imagine Isabela and Fenris on our doorstep at once? Someone would die. It might be you. You alright? Looking kind of green."  
  
Cullen reaches into his desk and pulls out a vial of the headache tonic Vivienne and the other alchemists have taken to brewing in batches for the castle.  
  
"How long do we have to brace ourselves?"  
  
"Well." Varric says. "The letter was somewhat delayed."  
  
Cullen feels something like a gaping hole opening up underneath him. His voice sounds incredibly distant and strangely calm.  
  
"By how long?"  
  
"Two weeks." Varric says, and he sounds almost sorry about it all. As he should be. His choice in friends is terrible at best, downright abominable at worst. Cullen makes the decision not to think about the fact that Varric has slowly been dragging Cullen - kicking and protesting - into this circle of friendship as well. "So. About, a week give or take. He's probably hurrying and Fenris probably borrowed Isabela's ship. So. Maybe four days? Five? With any luck he gets distracted by killing Venatori on the way."  
  
Cullen swallows hard and slowly puts his head on the desk.  
  
"I'd appreciate it if you'd close the door on your way out, Varric. I hope you don't mind but I could use some time to sort out my thoughts and write one last letter to my sister."  
  
The logistics of all of this is going to drive him insane.  
  
They're going to need to hide Dorian, for one thing. And the entire Charger's company. And Lavellan. Yes. They are going to need to hide Lavellan.  
  
-  
  
"No." Morrigan says when she hears a familiar voice echoing down from the castle walls. " _No_."  
  
She doesn't look, she _refuses_ to look. If she does not look perhaps he isn't there and this isn't real. She could just be mistaken.  
  
It's been ten years. Ten _blissful_ years. She could be wrong. A momentary lapse in her senses that's deceiving her -  
  
"Morrigan! I didn't know _Morrigan_ was here - where did you find her? Did you know that Surana was looking for her everywhere? Couldn't find her. I didn't think there was anything that woman couldn't do but here we are, ten years later and this is my first time seeing Morrigan since. I'm not sure if I'm pleased or not. Tell me - is she any less. Erm. _Witchy_? Has she threatened to turn anyone into a toad that you know of? Have _you_ ever turned anyone into a toad? Are toads able to eat people food, do you think? I think she's ignoring us, I'm speaking from personal experience when I say that I _know_ my voice carries and ten years ago Morrigan would have yelled or thrown something at me by now. Is this what you refer to as personal growth?"  
  
No. There is only _one_ person -  
  
"You knew Morrigan? Well I suppose you did since you were all part of the Fifth Blight together, was she much the same? _Really_? From the stories it really did sound like the Hero of Ferelden could do anything that's very surprising. What do you mean by witchy? Morrigan! _Morrigan_! I think she _can_ hear us? Or maybe not the wind can sometimes carry you away, sometimes Bull and Blackwall say they're terrified a strong wind could knock me over. That's silly, I'm strong! I can hold my ground, I've been training with the Bull's chargers to go up against their shield bashes - mind, I'm a long way from being able to stand up to one of Bull's charges but I'm getting much better. Do you think you'll be practicing with our soldier's while you're here? I'm told my voice carries too, but that doesn't seem to stop people from being surprised whenever I stand next to them. I don't think toads can eat people food, also I don't think anyone could throw anything from down there and reach here."  
  
Morrigan realizes with a dawning sort of horror that there are _two_ people in Thedas who have such an inane, annoying, baffling, and incredibly mind boggling way of _chattering_.  
  
And she's standing underneath the both of them.  
  
There is only one person who would do this to her, who would call this sort of _torture_ down upon her.  
  
(Two people, because Surana really is that terrible. But Morrigan knows this isn't her work. No, if this were her work she would be here to watch it. And where is she?  
  
Morrigan hopes she's safe. Somewhere.  
  
There is so much she has to say. Apologize for. Thank her for.)  
  
_Leliana_.  


	135. Chapter 135

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight spoilers for Trespassers.

"So do I get a cool code name, too, now?" Lavellan says when she appears one day and Bull has no fucking idea where the hell she came from or how but he opens his arms and sweeps her up anyway because she's _here_ and it doesn't really matter _how_. He’s learned better to think it does around her, by now. What’s important is that it _is_.

She laughs when he kisses her cheek and she curls her arm around his neck as far as it will go and she smells like dirt and grass and a little bit like ocean so she probably came from Kirkwall.  
  
It's good to know she's got a place to be. Even when her place in the world is gone.  
  
(There is no Clan Lavellan. The Elves are leaving. The Inquisition has ended. The Breach is no more.)  
  
Her place is with all of them -  
  
But it's good to know that there'll always be a roof for her to go to, to call her own. Varric's good people like that. It's more than any of them could've done for her on their own.  
  
"Boss!" Bull laughs and he really should talk to his guys about security if she could slip in for breakfast without anyone noticing, but then again it's her.  
  
"I'm not paying you so I don't know if that's a good code name. It might confuse people seeing as I am not the Bull." Lavellan says as he spins her around, before setting her down.  
  
He looks her over as the guys come around to greet her, Dalish kissing her cheeks and forehead and squeezing her face between her palms and talking rapid-fire in elvhen about something or other.  
  
(The elves of Thedas are disappearing, Bull knows. Sometimes he worries that one day he'll wake up and Dalish and Skinner would be gone without a word. Sometimes he wonders if the last words he said to his little saarebas boss are the _last_ words he'll ever say to her.)  
  
She looks well. Which is a lot to say. She's still luminous in her own way but the years, the loss, has worn on her. He knows. _They_ know.  
  
There are such fine cracks in her. So fine, but through them something spills through - like a rift or like she has become the anchor itself. Lightning. A stone with something glowing and alive on the inside, waiting to be refined.  
  
"Boss is good." Krem says, "It reminds the Chief not to get such a big head."  
  
Lavellan laughs as Krem sweeps her up for his own hug and passes her off to Grim who even smiles a little.  
  
She's got one arm but she's very good at hugging people in what feels like the world's most comfortable and surrounding embrace.  
  
Bull ruffles her hair and her little teeth are bright flashes like stars as she beams up at him.  
  
"It's official, Boss. You're _the_ _Boss_." Bull laughs.  
  
"I like the article in front." Lavellan says, deepening her voice and doing her best impersonation of him, widening her stance and crossing her arms. "It makes it seem like I'm less of a person and more of a blunt instrument of chaos and destruction and - "  
  
She turns to the others who through in various suggestions -  
  
"Pig-headed-ness."  
  
"Manliness."  
  
"Casual intercourse."  
  
"Insanity."  
  
"Mayhem."  
  
"Dawnstone."  
  
" _Dawnstone_." Lavellan finishes, holding the pose for a few seconds before everyone bursts out laughing. "So. Room for one more?"  
  
Bull laughs, slapping her on the back - lightly, because he'll never not treat her lightly, she's too important to them to treat any other way - before tossing her into the air and sitting her on his shoulders. The feel of her like this is so familiar. He hears the phantom sounds of soldiers training, merchants and nobles chattering, the echo of mountains and wind -  
  
" _Chargers_!" He booms, "What do we say?"  
  
"Welcome back Boss!"  
  
-  
  
Lavellan is humming as she helps carry boxes from the various wagons and carts and pack animals that made the trek to Skyhold to their designated areas.  
  
"Perky today, aren't you?" Dorian asks when she drops off another box of potions ingredients. Dorian starts going through them, sorting them out into piles and writing them down. "Remind me, how long were you supposed to be assigned _bedrest_?"  
  
"You're being fussy Dorian. Remember that you aren't supposed to be _fussy_?" Lavellan says, "You said it was a sign that you're getting old."  
  
"Stop _making_ me be fussy then." Dorian says, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. He looks her over, mouth pulling down. "A mountain came down on you. After you baited - you baited an Archdaemon and what claims to be one of the magisters who started the Blight. He hurt you. You deserve to rest when you can."  
  
Lavellan squeezes his wrist.  
  
"I don't want to rest, Dorian." She looks around, "I want to _help_. I want to explore this castle that Solas found for us, I want to make sure all the children - all the children we managed to save - are safe and are okay and I want to make sure that all the families who can get to see each other again and I want to finish unloading all of these boxes and bags and bundles so everything is where it _ought_ to be."  
  
Dorian squeezes her shoulder.  
  
"You're too _good_ , you know."  
  
Lavellan laughs as she slips away, "Those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, or so the shems say, Dorian."  
  
-  
  
"Kadan." She shapes the word slowly, carefully, solemnly, lovingly and gently and Bull nods.  
  
"Yes. _Kadan_."  
  
"Like, _lethallin_?" She asks.  
  
"Something like that." Bull says, "It means, the center of you. The chest. The heart."  
  
"Kadan." She repeats. "But _not_ vhenan."  
  
"No." Bull says, "Not like vhenan."  
  
Lavellan hums. "Like - Leliana and the Hero of Ferelden?"  
  
"Yeah." Bull nods, "Or Varric and Hawke."  
  
"Friends. Close. They love each other but they are not _in_ love with each other. Like that?"  
  
"Kadan can mean that, but it doesn't have to." Bull explains. "There are many who have called me Kadan, and many I have called Kadan in turn."  
  
Most of them are dead. Most of them would call him a betrayer if they saw him now. He would not be Kadan to them any longer.  
  
Lavellan is quiet as she ponders this. He thinks that she thinks it over not because she has difficulty with the concept - no. She is well aware of the divisions between sexuality and romance and love. He thinks that she's thinking it over so much because she is accepting the word into herself. It is a thing she does. Like how she takes their habits.  
  
She's rearranging her world to fit in this new word for this concept she has always known but never named.  
  
Lavellan closes her eyes and smiles.  
  
"You're thinking of _your_ kadan." Bull says.  
  
She nods, swaying a little and humming. "Yes. I want to tell him this word. Show me the way to write it. I want to give this word to him."  
  
Bull dips a finger into the dregs of his beer and writes it on the table. She dips her own finger in and mimics him.  
  
"Someday when it is safer I will ask my clan to come visit and you will meet him, my kadan." She says. "We have been faces together since _forever_. I love him and he loves me but we are not in love and that is hard for people who are not us to understand sometimes, even the people who know do _not_ know. Kadan. Yes. _Kadan_."  
  
Bull smiles and rests his hand on her head as she traces the word onto the table with her fingernail and little trails of magic.  
  
"And I am one of your kadans." She says. "And you are one of _my_ lethallin. And we are all growing into and around each other. Like many trees we are making a forest. Friends and family and lethallin and kadan."


	136. Chapter 136

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Trespasser spoilers in the first half.

She's crying and her hand hurts and it _all_ hurts – her heart most of all, but she is used to this ache, it is heavy but is _hers_ in a way nothing else is anymore - but it's _him_ and he's alright and he's safe and that's all that matters and he looks at her -  
  
"Oh, _da'len_." He says and she doesn't care what he's done or who he is or isn't because this is what she has been waiting for for _two_ _years_ and she clings to him with the one working arm because the other one won't stop hurting, won't stop spasming and she cries because he's alright, he's _alright_ , she didn't lose him too. He still calls her da’len, _she didn’t lose him. It was not her fault. She did not do this_.  
  
He takes her face in his hands and she doesn't think he's ever looked so - so _anything_. She's never seen his face look so open. So sad. Not when the orb was broken, not when she first woke up after Haven, not even when she lost her clan.  
  
His lips are warm and dry when he kisses her forehead, "Da'len. Ir'abelas."  
  
" _Tel'_ abelas." she chokes out because he isn't, she isn't, the only thing sorrowful here is that she is dying and he is nothing but the past. " _Hahren_."  
  
He hushes her and his arms are strong and familiar when he holds her and rocks her, gently, cheek against her temple, long broad sweeps up and down her back.  
  
And he tells her things, things she has wanted to hear without knowing. He gives her answers and with every word something inside her threatens to shatter open. Shatter apart.  
  
She won't let that thing shatter.  
  
She will not break.  
  
Not for _this_ , not for _him_ , not for anyone or _anything_.  
  
She's lost too much, _done_ too much, to break now.  
  
She can't hold him because she is nothing but pain - she feels nothing but pain, her hand, her arm, her mana, it is all pain.

(She holds too much as it is. She is overflowing.)  
  
His mana washes over her, clean and cool - refined over centuries and it looks like she will never even get a fraction of that purity for herself because she is _fading_ , fast and faster. Shem and seth’lin.  
  
"Da'len." Solas says, because he knows. _She_ knows. They both know. "We are running out of time."

She is running out of time. Cheated and borrowed.  
  
And he tells her all the things that she has wanted to hear and she knows he is not lying. He whispers them to her, softly, as he slowly lowers her down, squeezing the back of her neck as he pulls her away. She is beyond movement because it _hurts_ and she can feel it ripping her apart, the vision in her left eye is slowly blacking out and fading green.  
  
"Mythal was right. You do the people proud."  
  
"I thought you hated the Dalish." She hiccups, voice stuttering and cracking through the pain and his hands squeeze her shoulders tight.  
  
"I _pity_ them, but I do not hate them. I do not hate _you_."  
  
He cups her face in his hands and his face is nothing but sorrow and she remembers an age ago where she pointed out the features of her face and looked at him and wondered if their clans exchanged once, and the hysterical thought that maybe she _is_ a da'len by _wombs_ makes her snort through her tears.  
  
And he smiles like he knows what she's thinking - maybe he does - and he looks into her eyes and his eyes glitter wet and her face streams sorrows.  
  
And he tells her, in a language that has bound them both to this fate.  
  
"I am proud of you. I love you, and I am proud of all that you have accomplished. You bore the mark wonderfully, and your burden was heavy but you carried it so far. Farther than I ever would have expected of _anyone_. Of all the people in the world, I am proud that it was _you_. Thankful. I am grateful to you, for being in my life. Remember, it was _real_. You are my _lethallin_. No matter what happens, you will _always_ be _my_ _da'len_ , my most precious and beloved student. It is over, now. You've done so well."  
  
Her breath hitches in her chest.  
  
He kisses her forehead, one last time, and there is a shaving of a wolf's jaw wrapped in a flower petal, bound in her hair and she cries and it is loud and ugly when he stands up and walks away to leave her.  
  
But this is what she has been waiting for, for two years. This is what she lost with her mother and father and Mahanon and Hawke and Keeper.  
  
So she forces her hand to open. It rips at her, and she hears the angry hiss and snap and crack of the veil and the energy of the anchor ripping open – ripping her open - and she forces herself to open that hand.  
  
She forces herself to raise her arm, and she can feel the cracks in her very self splitting open - the thing that threatens to shatter humming and splintering - as she raises the hand high above her head, fingers spread.  
  
" _Solas_!" She screams and he turns around and there is nothing but light and his face and it all hurts but it would hurt more if she didn't say this. This is her last chance. And there's something like horror and pain on his face when he looks at her and the hand that brought them together, the hand that will kill her, the hand that gives and the hand that takes. The hand that's frozen her life forever. Frozen her time for this one moment.  
  
She draws in a breath and her bones scream.  
  
" _Dareth shiral."_ She scream-sobs. "Hahren, lethallin, ar lath ma. Ma'dirth _enaste_. Ma'lath _enaste_. Tel'Harel, _Emma'enaste_. _Ma serannas_."  
  
And she can see enough through the pain and the tears and the light of the wolf's mark to see that he smiles for her, one last time, and places his hand against his chest before he walks into the mirror and out of her life.  
  
This time, she thinks as the light and pain takes her, _this time_.  
  
She got to say goodbye.  
  
-  
  
"There's a herd of multi-colored deer grazing outside of Skyhold." Alistair says.  
  
"The Inquisitor has a vast collection of mounts." Leliana replies. "Most of them are stags. She has some - exotic mounts as well."  
  
Leliana closes her eyes. "I prefer not to think about them."  
  
They give everyone enough of a headache as it is.  
  
Alistair hums, contemplative.  
  
"You are not getting Surana a stag." Leliana says. "For one thing they have attitudes and you're already outnumbered two to one most of the time."  
  
"The dog picks me when we fight, usually." Alistair says. "Because he knows that whenever she and I fight, I'm the voice of reason and she's the one who's going off to do something absolutely insane."  
  
Leliana raises an eyebrow. "You still aren't getting her a stag."  
  
"Says _you_."  
  
"Yes, says me. Besides, Wardens ride griffons."  
  
"They're _extinct_."  
  
"Oh well, then."  
  
Alistair rolls his eyes. "You just don't want me to do anything fun because I'm a king, now, and that means I can't be fun anymore."  
  
Leliana laughs, "You could be the first fun king who doesn't get deposed."  
  
"Well, now I'm worried about that. You don't think they'd actually depose a survivor of the Fifth Blight, would you?"  
  
"Don't worry, Alistair. If they try anything I'd give you a head start warning." Alistair looks fond for a moment.  
  
"You say that like you wouldn't cut off the whole thing before I could notice." Alistair says. "You were always the nice one. When you weren't being a ruthless tease."  
  
"I _never_ teased you."  
  
"You and Wynne did nothing but tease me about Surana."  
  
"You were hopeless and adorable. How could we resist? Besides, all of us, except Sten, teased you about her. Even the dog."  
  
"You were all terrible people."  
  
"You love us all regardless."  
  
"Yes. _Well_. Almost dying with someone tends to do that, I suppose." Alistair grins. "Speaking of terrible people. I saw Morrigan. And I don't think I've ever seen her look so utterly horrified in her life. Your doing, I imagine?"  
  
"Our doing, you mean. You and Lavellan, together, are a singular experience."  
  
"I admit, I played it up a little when I saw her, but don't tell her that. It would probably violate some term of social propriety if she turned the King of Ferelden into a toad."


	137. Chapter 137

He is waiting for her in her room, his arms full of the packets of seeds and string that she has been making over the months and days -  
  
They think that she is odd. That she is strange. That her gifts of seeds and precious life in hard won shells is a quirk, a strange and useless kindness. They do not know. Not even Pride, for all his hard gained and bitter knowledge _knows_.  
  
She does not mind if they do not know, Cole wants to tell them sometimes -  
  
This is her _promise_ to you.  
  
But he does not because -  
  
"Cole, _Cole_ , they are happy because they do _not_ know. If they did know it would be such a heavy thing for them and I am happy that they smile for _me_."  
  
So he does not tell them that this is her promise, her oath, her just-in-case.  
  
Cole is waiting for her, and he has taken the seeds out of their hiding places because it is now time. They, she, he, them – await.  
  
She smiles at him, soft and worn and tired and faded but not _fading_ \- she will never fade, unless you let her, _Pride_ , unless you smother her and force her to be un-real -  
  
" _Dareth shiral_." Cole says, and the seeds his his hands and arms - wrapped carefully in cloth and tied with string - are excited to be made new. They want to help, they want to grow. They want to be sheltering arms and smiling faces and they want to be cradles and beds and gentle, gentle fingers.  
  
"Yes." She says because she understands, she _knows_. "There is somewhere we must go, Cole. Will you come?"  
  
She asks because choices are important. She is asked many things, but she is not _asked_.  
  
Cole nods. "I will go with you. You will make them trees and you will become trees with them, you will stand over them and your roots will cradle their heads as they sleep forever and your arms will shield them from all things and in your arms there will be songs and life, new, and you will be with them forever."  
  
She has hidden seeds all over Skyhold. All sorts of seeds. She has saved them for this.  
  
One seed for every person she has spoken to. One seed for everyone who has helped. Who has entered Skyhold. Who was at Haven. Who burned at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  
  
She gives acorns to all their soldiers and all of their scouts and maids and cooks and stable hands and messengers and friends. She spreads her seeds and they take root in the hearts of all she touches whether they know it or not.  
  
Because if they die and she cannot find them the acorn will grow and she will be with them - they are not _alone_. They will have graves even if they do not know it and this is her promise. Even when they are parted she will be with them and she will be the life hidden and she will be the life returned.  
  
Seeds are so precious. Keep them safe, keep them dry, keep them with you wherever you go. A trail of seeds makes a new forest in every footprint of the people. You'll never know when you'll need to plant a tree, a flower.  
  
"To Wycome." She says.  
  
Cole nods.  
  
"To Mahanon."  
  
-  
  
Dorian has larger hands than she does, thicker - broader - fingers and nails, too. They're very warm, his hands. She likes Dorian's hands.  
  
She likes to hold Dorian's hand and she likes watch Dorian cast magic with his hands. Dorian talks with his hands, too - and sometimes his hands say more than the rest of him does. Dorian is not very good at controlling what his hands say for him.  
  
She places her hand over the healing burn on her side, Dorian's palm and fingers. He is very upset about it. _She_ isn't.  
  
She probably should be - it is intimate, this hand. It is dangerous. It is a brand.  
  
But she can only be proud and happy of it.  
  
She is not dead. He is not dead. He saved her life.  
  
Dorian cares.  
  
As Dorian says, his people care deeply. _He_ cares deeply.  
  
She's not sure how to tell him how grateful she is. Yes, it is a brand - yes it echoes of slavery and it hurt and it hurt for quite some time healing, but she is alive thanks to him and she would not trade this for death.  
  
Dorian has been avoiding her. He is her close friend, she would call him _lethallin_ if he would let her. She imagines that it would set her clan into a frenzy. That she calls this man from Tevinter _hers_.

(And he is _hers_. He is hers and she will fight for him, she will fight gods and men for him, she will fight the world for him because Dorian needs to know that there is someone who would. She would. Dorian always calls her _too good_ , but he doesn’t seem to see how _wonderful_ he is in turn.)  
  
But she does because love knows no borders.  
  
Dorian, Dorian, _Dorian_ , she thinks. How could I ever be upset with you for saving my life?  
  
She will give him a little more time. A little more time and then she will step in and close because this is the life he has given her - so many people give her life - and she will not squander it away from him just because he feels bad for giving it to her in this way.  
  
Life is too _beautiful_ to waste regretting the actions of the past.  
  
-  
  
"Giant. Battle. _Nugs_." Sera says. "I don't know how you're going to top this one, but I can't wait to see."  
  
"Leliana likes them." Lavellan says. "I'm not so sure, but they seem nice. The dracolisks like them."  
  
"The dracolisks wanna toast and roast'm and see how they taste. Regular nug tastes like _bleh_. I don't think bigger nug will taste any different. Probably more _bleh_."  
  
"They wouldn't _eat_ them." Lavellan pauses, chews on her lip. " _Probably_."  
  
"The only thing between them and those nugs is your deer and he's _mean_." Sera says. "And the nugs know it. So they're suckin' up."  
  
"How do you suck up to a hart?"  
  
"Dunno, ask the nugs." Sera shrugs. "You actually gonna ride'm?"  
  
"I don't know." Lavellan says. "I think I'd feel bad about it. They look so sad and nervous about it all - I don't think I would. You can if you want to."  
  
"Right on." Sera says, "Imagine how crazy that would look. You'd have to be off to ride one of these into battle. It'd weird out the enemy, right. I mean, who rides into battle on a giant nug? No one."


	138. Chapter 138

“Have you considered the fact that, given half a chance, she will beat you across the Frostbacks with her bare fists if she ever finds out about this?” Bull asks as Varric finishes writing a letter to the elf he calls Daisy.

“Have you considered that she might burst a vein and be unable to beat me across Thedas if this goes right?” Varric returns. “Besides. She’s gotten. I don’t know. More relaxed?”

“Just because the dragon is asleep doesn’t mean it’s any less of a dragon.” Bull says, “I like you, Varric. I’d be a little sorry to watch you die like that.”

“You wouldn’t even try to stop her would you?”

“Nah. I know my limits.”

“And you?”

“I’ve warned you off at least ten times.” Cullen says from where he’s been quietly resting his head. He’s spent most of the morning and missed the afternoon meal arguing and attempting compromise with the few members of Warden command left. “From the fifth time on all consequences rested on your shoulders. Consider me absolved in the matter.”

“That’s polite Commander speak for fuck off, in case you didn’t figure that out by now.” Bull supplies.

“Yeah. I figured.” Varric says, “You think I should try writing Isabela?”

“Before or after _Fenris_ arrives to rip our Herald to pieces?” Cullen mumbles.

“Broody won’t hurt her.” Varric says, though he’s not so sure about that himself. He figures that maybe Poppy will hold up on her own long enough to get someone there to talk Fenris down. Worse comes to worse, he’s pretty sure Dorian is willing to play distraction so they can get Poppy someplace far away from the angry-stabby elf. “Much.”

“You don’t inspire much confidence, you know.” Cullen says, burying his head into his arms. He’s pretty much a lump of metal and fur. Probably not the image a proud Commander of the Inquisition is supposed to have, but this is what things do to people.

“We’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it.” Bull says.

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“Yeah, I know. But I mean we will literally burn the bridge to Skyhold when he gets to it if we have to.” Bull says. “I’m not kidding. It’d stall him for a little while but I figure we’re more suited for holding out against an angry elf in our fortress than he is for assaulting us.”

“Terrible people.”

“He won’t hurt her.” Varric repeats. “None of them would hurt her. They know how Hawke is. I explained it the best I could. They mostly just want answers, details. To see what it is Hawke gave – what Hawke died for.”

-

“Welcome to Haven?” She says -

“Why is that a question?”

“I’m not sure.” Lavellan says, leaning against the fence as Dennet leads the last of his charges into the meager stables of Haven. “There isn’t much to welcome with. I’m sorry, we asked you away from home and everything.”

“I’m not here for a vacation, Inquisition.” Dennet says, “I’m here to work. A solid roof over my head, supplies for my horses, and food enough for me is all I need.”

Lavellan nods, quiet in her contemplation.

“I have a question.” She says as Dennet watches the stable hands sorting out the horses. He grunts. “Do you have any experience with harts?”

“Harts?” Dennet glances at her for a moment, “As in the deer?”

“Yes.”

“No. Though I’ve heard of them. Those are Dalish, aren’t they? Majestic breeds. Someday I’d like to get a closer look at one.”

Lavellan hums a soft tune for a few minutes as Dennet issues orders and directions. The horses have to be put together in certain groups, some get along better than others. And it’s best to keep the scout’s horses closer to the front and ready for use. Probably wont be needing the draft horses too often.

“How _much_ of a closer look would you like?” She says and Dennet turns to her. And she just looks at him with large dark eyes.

“I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to see one through its paces, at least once. I haven’t thought of it, to be honest.” Dennet says and she smiles, springing up and letting out a sharp whistle.

A few seconds later Dennet hears something in the woods let out a mighty trumpeting screech and the sound of thundering hooves.

He turns and if his hair weren’t already white it would be now.

A hart, large and pale colored is charging across the frozen lake – he didn’t even know that there was anything that could be trained to cross frozen water like that – before coming to a complete stop next to Lavellan, stomping his hooves and letting out a snort.

“This is my hart.” She says. “We’ve been together for a very, very long time. Since he was a little fawn. He’s a Royal Sixteen. Do you think you could take care of him? Mostly he’s been wandering around outside of Haven but I get worried he might get hurt and I think he should have some company.”

Dennet stares. The hart – a _Royal Sixteen_  – stares back with dark, black eyes.

“I’ve been told that we are going to be getting a red hart soon.” She continues. “Do you think you could accommodate them?”

“I don’t know much about harts, Inquisition. But you can bet I’ll learn.” Dennet says. “He have name?”

“Of course.” Lavellan says, petting the hart’s nose as he continues his staring contest with Dennet.

Dennet waits. And waits. He gestures at the hart.

“And?”

Lavellan blinks.

“I don’t know it.” Lavellan says. “The time isn’t right for me to know yet. He’ll tell me when he’s ready, but I’ve been calling him my da’vhenan. He likes it. Though he isn’t so little anymore. Don’t worry, he knows when he’s being talked to.”

“Right.” Dennet says. “Will he let me near?”

Lavellan and the hart have their own staring contest before he flicks his ears and slowly walks over to stand in front of Dennet. He extends his neck and offers his nose.

He’s going to write his daughter and she will be green with envy.

-


	139. Lavellan Character Sheet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief reference sheet to gather up all the information about this Lavellan.
> 
> Everything not mentioned (name, appearance, vallaslin, stuff about Hawke, etc.) is up to the reader to decide.

**Personal Information:**

  * Female Mage
  * Twenty to twenty one at the beginning of Inquisition
  * Received her vallaslin a year to half a year before the events of Inquistion. They extend all over her body.
  * Has a father, mother, deceased younger sibling who died as a baby, and a soul-twin (Mahanon)
  * Learned shape-shifting as part of her training as a First (plays no role in Inquisition or in the story but is mentioned once in passing)
  * She cannot read but Varric's books were very popular among her clan and she saved up to get copies of her own to be read out loud by others in her close group. She learns to read and write during the events of the Inquisition and is very good at forging other people's writing. (Leliana says that she's influenced by Alistair's penmanship.)
  * Lavellan likes to draw and learns how to fold paper from Leliana.
  * Clan Lavellan is lost.
  * She is described as having large eyes that can appear dark, and being thin and narrow with a sleepy expression by other characters. She is also very quiet when moving and can startle people. There is a slight nick on her ear from one of Cole's blades and a burn the shape of Dorian's hand on her side where he cauterized a wound. Her ears are pierced.
  * In chapter 76 she says she and Solas have similar eyebrows.
  * Her mount is a Royal Sixteen she found and took care of as a faun, his name is unknown but sometimes she will call him da'vhenan or vhenan.
  * Varric calls her "Poppy", and she introduces herself as such to others (i.e. Alistair). But it is not her name.



**Inner Circle Decisions/Relationships:**

  * The Chargers are saved and the Iron Bull cuts ties with the Qun.
  * Bull will occasionally refer to her as "kadan" and she will refer to him as "lethallin".
  * Solas and Lavellan have a mentor-student relationship that develops into a close familial relationship between elder and younger.
  * Cole refers to her as The Passion of - and as "real".
  * Dorian's amulet is restored to him, but they are not in a romance.
  * Cullen is off lyrium.
  * Lavellan helps Josephine restore the Montilyets through diplomacy.
  * Blackwall is pardoned and rejoins the Inquisition freely.
  * Lavellan is romancing no one.
  * Lavellan gives acorns and packets of seeds to everyone.



**Inquisition Choices:**

  * The Mage Rebellion joins as allies to the Inquisition.
  * Hawke is sacrificed in the Fade.
  * The Wardens stay in Orlais and help the Inquistion.
  * Morrigan drinks from the Well of Sorrows.
  * The sentinels are allies during the fight at the Well of Sorrows.
  * Lavellan's main party for Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts is: Cassandra, Dorian, Varric. (as discussed in previous chapters) Though the other members of the Inquisition are floating around as back up and behind the scenes clean up work.
  * Lavellan's main party for Here Lies the Abyss is: Cassandra, the Iron Bull, Cole.
  * Sutherland's company works with the Inquisition.
  * The quest to destroy Samson's armor is done.
  * Frederick the Draconologist is recruited.
  * Dennet is recruited.



**Misc:**

  * Warden Commander Neria Surana is alive. She is Alistair's mistress/wife(?) - *waves hands* LET'S JUST IMAGINE ANORA IS NOT IN THE PICTURE. 
  * Neria saved the mabari.
  * Neria is Sten/Arishok's kadan.
  * Neria recruited Shale.
  * Hawke has a mabari.




	140. Chapter 140

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Trespassers in the first half of this chapter.

“She’s angry. Bursting at the seams and bleeding at them and she’s _angry_.” Cole says, the tips of his fingers picking at each other, hat shielding his face as he wavers around the shadows. Bull and Varric exchange glances. “So angry, she isn’t ever this angry – blazing, brilliant, burning, _bleeding_  – not even in the dreams of the Fade. She’s angry there but it’s a different angry, it’s an _I love you_ angry, it’s a safe angry that drives all the bad things away. But this isn’t the right kind of angry.”

They saw her storm into the make-shift war room when she came out of the Eluvian, her hands tight fists and her face dark and ghostly and about as fierce and dangerous as they’ve ever seen it. A stranger.

She looked like the image of the elves they tell you in cities. The image of the Dalish that come out of the night to burn homes and salt fields and slit the throats of babies. She looked like _death_.

Cold and sharp, like the echo of lightning on the back of the eyes.

Bull breathes in, a slow thing that makes his chest expand and his bones hum. Varric closes his eyes.

Things aren’t looking so good for them.

This might be the end.

“She’s hurting.” Cole whispers, voice going so quiet. “She doesn’t want me to go to her because she knows. This is the end. She’s burning out. Fading. A star going. Going.”

Bull’s knuckles crack and all of the Chargers look grim and pale.

“Shut up.” Sera whispers, sounding like she just got punched. “Just shut up. _Shut up_.”

“She’s going to take everyone down with her.” Cole continues. “If she’s going to burn out she’ll bring them down with her. She will never let them get past her. It’s her and them and us and him and she will make them know that us and him are hers, too, because if she is going to be the greedy and power hunger Inquisitor everyone says she is _she will be because she is hungry for us_.”

Cole curls over himself and that sounds so much like her -

That girl’s heart is too big and once you get in it you’ll never get out. It’s a prison for the things she loves.

“She is wrath. And the Passion of – .” Cole says, something _other_ building around the words that is and isn’t Cole because it’s just _her_. “Everything is going wrong and so many people died for this, for her. _Can’t one thing in this world stay fucking fixed?”_

They all flinch at the words that definitely aren’t Cole’s – but can’t seem to be _their_ Inquisitor’s either and the words are burning like brands and smack at the face like claws.

“She’s so tired.” Cole says and Blackwall touches his shoulder. Cole leans into him a little. “She’s going. She’s slipping away. It’s so hard to see her. She’s so dim.”

Cole shivers.

“Stars, stars fading. Fading, fading, faded. She is falling. She is falling, Pride. She is falling and she is trying to grasp the sky for you but it all slips through her cracks and she loves and she wants to say goodbye at least to one person, she wants to be wished well. She’s going, she knows. She can see the end – Mahanon, I am coming for you. Keeper. Hawke. I’m coming. _I’m coming_. I failed them, I am so sorry.”

Cole stops, and straightens up.

“She’s coming. She won’t say goodbye because she doesn’t want us to know. But we need to say goodbye. She will not come back. Her body is failing her. There is nothing pride can do.”

The candles around the room flicker and the shadows are long.

There are fireworks outside.

The sounds rattle the bones and tears.

-

“Skyhold was waiting for me.” She says.

“Yes.” Cole says. “Waiting for a force to hold her, sleeping and dreaming of laughter and children and armies and glory and flags. Dreaming of people to protect in her arms and her stone, for arms to claim her, too. She has been waiting for someone worthy. And now she is awake and she has you and she will never let you go.”

Lavellan looks around the dusty room.

“She is beautiful. Can she hear me?”

“Yes. She hears and feels everything. You especially. Her little heart.”

“Thank you for waiting.” Lavellan says. “Thank you for waiting for me. Thank you for letting me in.”

“Yes.” Cole says. “Yes.”

Lavellan’s bare feet feel the dust on the stone – smoothed by years and years of wind and feet and passing people. Now hers. She breathes in deep and the air is cold.

She can hear the sounds of people and cattle and things and wind from all around them. Metal and hooves on stone and splashes of water and rustles of things moving and being moved.

“I like it here.” Lavellan says. She isn’t used to stone walls and ceilings and fortresses, but this is good. It feels right. The magic in the air feels _good_. It feels safe, like the depths of the woods and the thickest branches of trees. Shelter and hearth and bed.

“Good.” Cole says, and she can tell his mind is wandering away from here, from  her, to the sick and hurting and frightened.

“Go.” She says and Cole looks at her, curious and quiet.

“Thank you.” He says. “She thinks you feel right, also.”

And he’s gone.

She smiles into the air and spreads her arms and sways and feels the mana of the stone and the air and the way it feels gentle, like a mother, like a sister, and she sends her mana out and back. _Yes, hello, I am here, I like being here, show me everything_.

Eyes closed, she feels the mana and follows the paths of it and she knows that Skyhold would never let her get hurt, this place will not fall. Not as long as she is in these walls. Skyhold will not let her fall.

“Let me know you.” Lavellan breathes and she slowly lets loose small tendrils of magic into stone and it feels like the air around her sighs. She smiles. “Teach me how to love you.”

_Yes. Lethallin. Yes._


	141. Chapter 141

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers in this chapter.

He isn’t quite sure how she found him, but she has always been good at finding things – and she’s always been good at finding her people whether her people know that they’re _hers_ or not.

She’s sitting on a rock, legs folded, eyes closed, and she could be a statue – but Thom’s never seen a statue look so blissfully peaceful, and he’s certainly never seen a Royal Sixteen chewing on the hair of one.

“My lady.” He says, because she is no longer his Inquisitor, she never really took to being Herald, and it only seems fitting that he refers to her as this.

She smiles, eyes closed.

“We missed you, Sera sends her regards and Varric wants to know when you’ll be by. He says you have the oddest stories.”

Thom – Blackwall, Rainier, it’s hard to understand which name to use, which one he is and isn’t. He imagines it’s just the same for her. If not worse. She has been so many things at once and not at all, and she lost and gained them all so fast.

Blackwall stands in front of her, blocking the sun from hitting her face and she opens her eyes.

“Hello.” She says, holding up her hand – the one she has left, and she seems so big, she has always seemed larger than her own skin, it is strange to think that part of that has been cut from her and yet she remains so inexplicably _large_  – and waves at him.

“Hello.” Thom says, and he takes her hand and kisses it and she laughs because their girl is growing, growing, growing and he will always have a soft spot for her. She’s carved that spot out all for herself, and it exists in Thom and Blackwall and Rainier regardless.

The stag eyes him before blowing a puff of hot air into his face and snapping his teeth at him and moving off to find somewhere else to graze.

It is most likely pointless to ask how they found him. He’d have thought Cole, but Cole isn’t with her right now and she travels around too much for letters to reach her.

“Have you eaten?” He asks her because there really is no point in the small talk,not after everything they’ve gone through, not after everything she’s gone through.

He knows her, after all.

“Yes. No. Yes.” She says, rocking a little. “A little here, a little there, not really anything much. I could eat more, I suppose. Have you eaten, Blackwall? Ma’vhenan doesn’t ever really stop eating, you know.”

The stag makes a soft puff from the side of the clearing.

“He has to carry you around all day, so I suppose there’s that.”

“You carry me sometimes but you say I don’t weigh anything at all.”

“That’s different.” Blackwall says as she hops off the rock, moving to help him set up provisions. “You take him all sorts of places. I just stand.”

-

Lavellan skids into the room, hitting a wall, and then failing and attempting to look casual at it as she leans. Dorian and Vivienne raise eyebrows at each other before turning to look at her.

She tends to avoid them when they have these little talks of theirs. She says it makes her want to climb walls with her nails.

“So.” She says, slightly out of breath. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Dorian says, setting into his chair as Vivienne crosses her legs. “And you?”

“Cup of tea, darling?” Vivienne says –and it’s not really a question because Vivienne _never_ asks, she just _pours_ and everyone else is to just _do_.

Lavellan pours herself into a chair, and she is terrible at playing casual.

Dorian wonders if they’re going to wait for her to crack. Then thinks about it seriously and no – they aren’t, because if she’s here like this she’s just itching to spill whatever it is that’s bothering her.

“I might have done something.” Lavellan says, eyes flicking from Vivienne to Dorian, “That may or may not require assistance.”

“What kind of assistance?”

Lavellan closes her eyes and breathes.

“Special assistance.”

“And you are telling this to us because?”

“Because I need your assistance.” She breathes in deep. “I may have, or may not have – been eavesdropping on someone we know. And I may or may not have heard some troubling news. And I may or may not need you to smuggle me across the border with utmost discretion. You two are the most discrete people i know when it counts and I feel like you’re very good at handling these sort of things.”

Vivienne raises an eyebrow. Dorian hums as he adjusts his teacup just so.

“And why would you need discretion?”

“Because I will die.” She says. “And I don’t want anyone else to die with me so I think it’s best if we pull a feint and I can be gone before he ever reaches Skyhold.”

“Who’s coming, exactly?”

Lavellan’s eyes are still closed and for a moment she looks like someone has transcended the mortal coil before she opens her eyes and says -

“Fenris.”

-

“Shush and have a cracker.” Dorian says when Lavellan opens her mouth. The girl looks highly conflicted for a few seconds before she takes one of the little star shaped crackers and starts to nibble at it like a large and strangely attractive mouse.

“Did you just tell the Herald of Andraste to shush and _have a cracker_?” Cassandra says, sounding about as scandalized as Dorian thinks anyone would feel if they found out that said Herald of Andraste can be convinced to do tricks with treats like an animal in the circus – by a Tevinter mage no less.

“You’re just jealous because if you tried carrying crackers for that trick they’d all break in our bags.” Dorian says. “And yes, I did, because I am not nearly as patient as the rest of you seem to think I am and there are only so many times I can handle being dragged around for elfroot or something or other. Also she burns it off like nothing else, it’s fascinating.”

Cassandra closes her eyes and Dorian wiggles his fingers at her as she stomps off to yell at Varric for something or other.

“You’re giving her a headache.”

“ _Fasta vass_.” Dorian clutches his heart and glares at Lavellan where she’s popped up by his elbow.

Lavellan is licking her fingers and looking about as placid as a cow, ignorant of all the ways she’s gradually shaving years off Dorian’s life

“You’re giving her a headache.” Lavellan repeats.

“And you’re giving me gray hairs.” Dorian replies.

“That’s not true.” Lavellan laughs. “Also – “

“No, shush. Have a walnut.”

“You can’t _buy_ my silence forever. You’ll run out of snacks eventually.”

“We’ll see about that.”


	142. Chapter 142

"I keep telling you - they will think that I am _using_ you. And it's unfair to the both of us - I wouldn't use you, and you're too clever to be used by anyone. You aren't as stupid or naive as you pretend to be half the time and I know it even when you don't _want_ me to." Dorian snaps, and it's so very hard to keep his voice down. He ought to have moved them somewhere else, but it was the heat of the moment and the amulet was beautiful in his hand and it hurt. It all just _hurt_.  
  
She snaps out a laugh that sounds raw and edged and makes Dorian flinch because she has _never_ been edges with him before.  
  
"Unfair? _Unfair_ \- Dorian's that's _life_. Life is survival, unfair, and being used and using others." She says, and she's pale and there are dark circles under her eyes that Dorian thinks have been there for some time but something about the lighting through the windows and the torches and this makes them look like holes. "That's _my_ life, Dorian. Persecution, death, extinction, slavery, prejudice. Holes in the sky, half of Thedas wanting my head for the death of the Divine, a mountain falling on me, blighted Tevinter magisters, war on every front - half of my problems are solved with outright _murder_ and the other half are solved with blackmail and lies, if I could solve those problems by throwing around this - "  
  
She gestures, face twisting into disgust -  
  
"This _stupid_ name, this title, that means _nothing_ to me, that I keep saying _isn't_ mine at every _fucking_ turn, don't you think I _would_?"  
  
Her eyes are wet and Dorian is still angry but he's also _afraid_ and guilty because why can't she understand that he _loves_ her and he _knows_ , he knows that she loves him but he is _Tevinter_ and the south hates him and everything he represents and he can't destroy her and what she's building by making the world think that -  
  
"They'll think you're _weak_. They'll think that I'm - " Dorian's voice cracks and his skin is hot and he is so, so ashamed and angry but it's because -  
  
He told her once, that his people love too much. And it's _true_.  
  
" - I'm Tevinter, Lavellan. And you're an elf. It's another case of Tevinter over elves, evil magister and his slave and they'll think you're my puppet if you just - if you just do things for me. You can't. You can't _be_ that -  "  
  
"And why the fuck _not_ , Dorian? Why the fuck not?" Her hands clench and it's like she's physically bowing under the weight of something he can't see, her shoulders hunched and her face a pale mess. "Dorian - _Dorian_."  
  
"Lavellan, please." Dorian says, and the edges of the amulet dig into his palm. _"I_ can't be that. _Please_."  
  
Her voice is cracking like lightning and mana flicks off her fingertips as she gestures, hand running over her face, through her hair as she looks at something past him, through him, around him, something he can't see. And he is hot, hot, hot, shivering hot inside his own skin, prickling and melting and cracking at once. He isn’t even sure if he sees _her_ right now and he isn’t sure if she sees _him_.

Pressure and points of bursting.  
  
"I can't - Dorian, I _can't_. I can't solve _anything_ , I can't do it. I have an entire council of advisors who - whether they know it or not - are basically here to tell me how to be as palatable to shem nobles as possible and be as not-Dalish as I can possibly be and - and I have a solid third of my so-called _Inquisitor's Circle_ hating the Dalish and thinking they're stupid. And don't even get me started on how many people who are my _friends_ don't like magic. And I can't fix that by throwing this stupid title around. I _can't_."  
  
She covers her face and then explodes, hands flinging out and voice hitching and jackknifing as she continues to break Dorian's heart – and his heart continues to be broken and he loves her and he really, really wishes he didn’t because love hurts and it’s a terrible and awful thing that makes you feel too much and Dorian has never been very good with handling too much feeling at once.  
  
"And don't even get me started on - on _everything else_. I can't fix _any_ of it. There's this _thing_ that Blackwall's hiding and ever time I think I get close he pushes me away, and then there's _Solas_ who's holding something back and I can see it in his eyes and I don’t know if he wants me to or not. I don't even _know for sure_ , I just know that he's going to leave and there's nothing I can do to stop him and I can't even ask him because it's just this _feeling_ I have. And I'm just this _stupid_ da'len that he doesn't have to explain anything to and he's going to just keep it all to himself and one day he'll just be gone and I won't be able to do a _damn_ thing about it. And Sera - _Sera_. Gods Dorian, I don't even know where to start with Sera except that I'm scared she hates me and is just too polite or maybe she's playing at something to say it to my face."  
  
Lavellan's laugh sounds like a bubble bursting.  
  
"And _Josephine_ \- Dorian, I almost got her killed. Leliana wants me to just get the contract myself but Josephine wants to do it her way and I was supposed to keep her _safe_. _Skyhold_ was supposed to be safe, I'm supposed to be protecting you but she almost died and I couldn't stop that. And there's Bull and I don't know how I can make him believe that _he's_ okay, that _he's_ loved, that he is _himself_ because he won't believe me when I tell him the Iron Bull is worth something and Leliana won't let me help her either because every time I ask about her she directs me elsewhere like her own problems aren't worth it or maybe I'm not worth it and I couldn't save everyone at Haven and it's my fault so many people died, so many people are dead and dying and it's all on me, Dorian. It's all on _me_ and I can't help any of you except by killing and if I could solve any of these problems by walking up to someone and saying _I'm the Inquisitor do this_ , don't you think I _would_?"  
  
Lavellan lets out a low sound and Dorian grabs her arms when her knees give out and her hands are tight  on the front of his clothes and her eyes are wet and dark and desperate when she looks up at him and his throat is sealed shut and angry and he is so, so angry at the world and her and him and it feels like there is nothing he isn’t angry about.  
  
"Please." She says, "Please just let me do this for you. _Please_."  
  
-  
  
"What a beautiful day for running around a wet, rainy coast  filled with red lyrium and darkspawn and demons. Said no one. _Ever_." Sera says, glaring at a charred spot a few feet away from them that just got struck by lightning.  
  
What the _fuck_.  
  
"It _is_ a beautiful day though." Lavellan says because she's optimistic about shit like that.  
  
"No." Sera says.  
  
"It could be worse." Dorian says, like an _idiot_ because that's how you jinx things.  
  
As if on cue, they hear a dragon overhead.  
  
Bull looks so excited Sera thinks that maybe his _little horn_ is horns up, too.  
  
" _No_." Dorian and Sera say and Lavellan is staring at the sky with this look of wonder.  
  
"Alright." Lavellan says and Bull groans like he's a whiney snot or something, _whatever_ at least the Inquisitor is showing some sense for once in her -  
  
"Let's get Cassandra and Solas." Lavellan says. "And refill supplies back at camp. _Then_ we'll go find the dragon."  
  
"No. That isn't what I meant. Are you stupid on purpose? _No_. I meant, like, _no_. At all. No dragons. Don't do it."  
  
"Listen to Sera."  
  
"Listen to Dorian telling you to listen to _me_."  
  
"Best boss."  
  
Lavellan hums as she skip in the lightning and rain back to the stupid, stupid wet and damp Inquisition camp that Sera is pretty sure the Nightingale uses as a punishment to send their misbehaving scouts - that and the Mire - to think about what they've done - or haven't done.  
  
"I hate _everything_." Sera says because there's water in her boots and it's gross and squish and rank and ugh.  
  
Dorian sighs like he's a wilted flower or something but he agrees so they're in this together, at least.


	143. Chapter 143

"This isn't what I meant when I said you ought to take things with a grain of salt." Dorian says, staring at the salt lick in Lavellan's hand. "This is in fact, the _opposite_ of what I meant."  
  
Lavellan blinks, looks down at the salt lick, then at Dorian. "Oh. This? It's not for _me_."  
  
"Oh good, because there are limits, you know. I have _limits_. At this point I'm surprised I do considering everything you've put me through should have shattered them beyond recognition, but I _do_. I'm a little proud of myself for still having them, to be perfectly frank. It’s an entirely new low for me. Being proud of having vaguely discernable limits." Dorian replies, "Now explain why you are carrying a rock."  
  
"It's for the Iron Bull." Lavellan says and Dorian closes his eyes and makes a soft sound and a faint gesture, Lavellan raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Do you hear that?" Dorian says not waiting for her to answer, " _That_ is the sound of my limits. Dissolving into the ether. Gone. _Vanished_. Whisked away by unnamable powers. Along with that little speck of pride. _Whoosh_."  
  
"He needs it for things." Lavellan continues, ignoring Dorian as she tosses the salt lick from one hand to the other. "He needed a new one, so I had to wait for the newest supply wagon to come. They didn't even take my money, you know. It was very strange. I don't understand why everyone is so insistent on me learning how to properly use shem money when no one takes that money from me. And then you all get _mad_ when I start giving people money or leaving it places. Merchants don't even take it half the time."  
  
Dorian highly doubts anyone would charge the Inquisitor of Thedas money for a lump of rock salt. Especially if she showed up in person to get it.  
  
The only one in the world unaffected by her is Dennet because Dennet, Dorian thinks, has _seen_ things. Now he's not going to _ask_ the man but it feels like there's something there. Something in his eyes.  
  
"Did he say what he needed it _for_?"  
  
"No. Was he supposed to tell me?"  
  
"You should probably start asking people why they want things from you. It could end terribly otherwise."  
  
"I don't think he can do anything too terrible with _salt_ , Dorian."  
  
"Ah, you say this _now_. Mark my words, you'll be singing a different tune in a few months."  
  
-  
  
"No, no, no, no, _no_ , wrong _way_ , _wrong_ way, _wrong way._ " Lavellan yells, streaking past him with a slight trail of frost in her wake. Bull turns to look in the direction she was running from, then picks Cole up in one arm and the Seeker in the other, ignoring Cole's confused squeak and the Seeker's angry and baffled snarl -  
  
"I hate this." Bull says, turning to run after her as what looks like literal hordes of undead shamble after them with raised weapons.  
  
"I hate this map." Lavellan screams. "I hate this. It is so _wrong_. How is a map so wrong?"  
  
"Are you sure you're reading it right?" She didn't even know how to _read_ until recently.  
  
"I can read a _map_." She snaps, jumping and scrambling up some rocks. Bull throws Cole up on the rocks, makes sure the kid landed properly - looking like a confused scarecrow, probably because Bull carried him more than anything else - and then grabs the Boss by the back of her neck and throws her up after him.  
  
"Put. Me. _Down_." Cassandra seethes and Bull grins and her eyes widen - "No. Don't you - "  
  
"No time to argue, I mean. I _am_ going to put you down." Bull says and throws her up after them, higher up on the rocks. Cassandra grunts, turning to glare death at him once she's gotten herself secured and is pulling the other two up to her level. Bull starts climbing after them. "Less glaring, more escaping."  
  
"Agreed." Lavellan says as Cole bobs his head. Bull has no idea how the hell the kids' hat has stayed on this long. Or stayed so intact.  
  
"We'll speak about this later." Cassandra says and Bull doesn't doubt it, but he's also wondering if she means actual words or her coming at him with a sword.  
  
"It's the second one." Cole whispers to him as Cassandra and Lavellan get ahead of them. Bull laughs.  
  
"Good to know, kid. Good to know."  
  
-  
  
"Is there something you need to tell me? Something, _perhaps_ , along the lines of, how much you adore me and are so thankful to have me in your life?"  
  
"It's something more along the lines of how much I hate your guts and want to see you roasted like a stuck pig." Krem says, hiding his face in his hands.  
  
"I'm a wonderful wingman, as they say."  
  
"No one asked you. And no one would ever call you that. You attract too much attention. _Who even asked you?_ "  
  
Dorian is oddly quiet and Krem looks up and groans when he sees Dorian's expression that is one part pleased, one part chagrinned, one part entertained.   
  
"Who was it? The Chief? Dalish? Sera? The boy?"  
  
"The most considerate and kind Inquisitor of Thedas." Dorian says and Krem groans louder.  
  
"I know, the absolute worst, isn't it? You can't even yell at her." Dorian pretends to examine his nails. "I imagine that yelling at her is something like repeatedly kicking a puppy that just wants to  lick your face. I haven't a clue as to how other people do it except that they’re barbaric and lack any moral concepts."  
  
"She asked you to set me up."  
  
"No, she asked me to join her in telling our most lovely minstrel about all of your good points. She even stopped me from throwing in a few true stories, you know. You'd be pining here forever, otherwise."  
  
"I'm here to work, not to flirt."  
  
"You're here to drink and laugh at the pain of others and to function as Tevinter B."  
  
" _Ugh_."  
  
"Coincidentally, I am here to drink, laugh at the pain of others, and to be Tevinter A."  
  
"I joined up before you did."  
  
"A is for altus."  
  
"What's b for, then?"  
  
"Busted." Dorian replies. "Now, are you going to let our darling Inquisitor's hard work go to waste or are you going to go talk to her, instead of staring at her from your chair like a complete and utter schoolboy?"  
  
"I told the Herald that I sat like this so I could see the door. How did she - ?"  
  
"Yes, well, what a _coincidence_ , you can also see her singing. And our Inquisitor _Inquisits_ and has _eyes_. Did you think you were being subtle, Aclassi?"  
  
"Ugh."  


	144. Chapter 144

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word rape is mentioned once in this chapter. There is no rape occurring, but the word is used once towards the end.

"I would very much like to be friends with him." She announces and Solas closes his eyes.  
  
"I doubt you could become _friends_ with him."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Because he is a man who thinks slavery is an _acceptable_ state of employment and thinks cases of abuse are in the minority and thus should not impact the view of slavery as a whole.  
  
Lavellan goes to braid the elfroot she had been collecting all morning into a small rope.  
  
"He's very smart. I mean, _time_ magic." She says, sitting on the floor next to Solas' pack. "That's clever. It's interesting. I could _use_ interesting."  
  
Solas raises an eyebrow.  
  
She shrugs.  
  
"He's a different perspective. They study things differently, in Tevinter. It's all _open_. People can talk, debate, share, experiment. Here everyone I know only looks back to what _was_. There they look forward to what could be. Imagine if we could combine the two for what _is_."  
  
Her fingers are fast as she prunes the dead and drying leaves off the stalks of elfroot, eyes focused past him and onto something else.  
  
"Will you actually listen to my advice if I give it?"  
  
"I will listen and consider, but I cannot promise obedience or acquiescence." She replies. A smart and diplomatic reply, she could stand to use  more of _this_ when she interacts with the shemlen. Though he supposes that when she plays upon her more childish aspects it does improve their image of her.  
  
She is building a persona that is not completely divorced from her true self, but it is lighter, thinner. A mist that escapes rather than a wave that crashes. Makes her seem less, hiding the depths of how she is truly _more and more_.  
  
She is very, very clever. More so than anyone, even himself, gave her credit for.  
  
"Be polite, be kind." Solas says, "Support him, watch him. Learn from him. But do not draw him to close. He may hurt you in ways you do not expect."  
  
Lavellan looks at him for a very long time. Solas is reminded of another pair of eyes from another age, almost.  
  
That goes for me, too, Solas doesn't add. You do not see, you do not _know_.  
  
"I have heard you." She says.  
  
"And I notice that you have only _heard_ me."  
  
She smiles.  
  
"People change. It is a Keeper's duty to help guide that change, no? Perhaps if I am his friend, he will begin to understand the true price of freedom."  
  
-  
"Life is ugly." Lavellan says, sitting next to him on the edges of the camp. It is a long way back to Skyhold. Cullen worries that most of their sick and injured might not make it. But it is - it is much _less_ of a loss than he thought it would be. Still a loss, a painful loss – he was personally acquainted with many of the soldiers they lost. And even the ones he wasn’t – they were still. They were still comrades. It will always hurt to lose one as such. "But life is also very _beautiful_ , Cullen."  
  
He is not quite sure if he is in the mood for this. Warfare is an _ugly_ thing, and it makes Cullen think of dark, red-filled times. Desire and rage and pride and envy and fear all curled and knotted together into one large, shadow-filled thing threatening at the back of his mind. Whispering.  
  
He has not slept as much as he ought to have, not good for the Commander of an army, _this_ army, but he finds he isn't quite able to force himself to sleep.  
  
It was all the demons, he thinks. And the enclosed spaces of the fortress.  
  
He turns to look the Inquisitor over - everyone has been doing it, staring at her, making sure she's still there, still her, still in one piece. She's been through the fade twice, now.  
  
And yet - she remains herself. Though she is pale and wan, shaken from Hawke's loss.  
  
After that first night she has not spoken to Varric or anyone else from their circle of friends except for a few of the Chargers and Cullen. And perhaps Cole, but he isn't sure. Cole has been with her but sometimes the two don't talk at all.  
  
"Terrible, _hideous_ things happen all the time. And sometimes that rubs off on you." She looks to the sky, her hands curled together. "And you think that _you_ , too, are ugly. Scarred and mangled and twisted beyond whatever it was you were before. The ugly thing in life becomes you. Murder, theft, rape, hatred. Whether you are the one who _is_ , or the one who _does_. And you look at yourself and you think that you have become that mess. And you, too, are _ugly_."  
  
Cullen opens his mouth to and she holds a finger up to her lips, eyes flicking to him then back to the sky. Eerie and far, far away. Strangely unreachable – unfamiliar and not. Larger and vaster than the young girl he is used to watching over. Something that is partially the one in the throne, the one with a weapon, and something from _before_. He thinks Bull has spoken of this – glimpsed it, before. He thinks they have all seen it before, in flashes – shadows of her face that tease their periphery.  
  
"But life is also _beautiful_." She continues, and there is something far away in her expression and Cullen thinks that she is pulling herself together remarkably well, fast, precisely. Better than anyone else he's ever known. "Have you seen a woman give birth, Cullen? I mean, been there, watched the baby crown, and the afterbirth spill out? It's _ugly_ business, Cullen. Everyone always talks about how _beautiful_ it is, but it's all very _ugly_. There is blood and sweat, feces, too, sometimes. Sometimes the mother dies, sometimes the child dies. Sometimes both. But there is always crying, there is fear, there is pain. Sometimes birth is a murder, sometimes it is a theft, sometimes it is a rape and an invasion. Sometimes it is hate or indifference. It is not always _love_. But it is life. And life, itself, is beautiful on its own. Because a lot of the time - a lot of the time, Cullen. All of that pain is worth it because a _lot_ of the time, after the crying and bleeding and hurting, a woman holds her baby in her arms and she smiles. And even if that baby is red and wrinkled and bloody and screaming, that woman smiles and she cries with happiness. The baby is confused and afraid of the new world, and the mother is overjoyed and proud of the child that has just entered it. And then, _then_ , is when we call birth _beautiful_."  
  
Lavellan falls quiet and Cullen isn't sure what to say.  
  
"Cullen you cannot stop life from happening." She says. "You cannot stop the world from making you think you are ugly. Ugly things happen. Ugly things _must_ happen. But beautiful things must happen, too. For in order for there to be something ugly there must be something _beautiful_ in order for us to recognize that which is grotesque."  
  
She turns to look at him.  
  
"Cullen. _Neither_ of us are ugly." She says, and her eyes are stars. She is a star. And Cullen can only stare because it feels like he’s standing on the edge of something _large_ and the last time he felt like this he was about to take his first draught of lyrium. "The world has just tried to do another ugly thing to us, and perhaps some of it has stuck. But we are not ugly things ourselves. We are _not_." 


	145. Chapter 145

"Sera is under the belief that you have a crush."  
  
Lavellan hums, looking amused and speculative as she measures out tea leaves, "Is that so?"  
  
"As your mentor, I feel duty bound to ask if I should be concerned." Solas says.  
  
"How mad do you think she'd be if she thought it was _you_?"  
  
Solas blinks, and something in his chest almost panics, and he congratulates himself for keeping a remarkably stoic face as he folds his hands.  
  
" _Is_ it me?"  
  
"No." Lavellan says, looking vaguely puzzled. "Of course not."  
  
Solas closes his eyes and breathes out a small sigh of relief.  
  
"She would most likely be very upset if it _were_ me." Solas says, "And Cole isn't as fond of plums as you seem to think he is."  
  
"Yes. Less plum." Lavellan hums, examining tea leaves before putting them aside. "Are you supposed to use embrium in tea? I forget."  
  
"I don't suggest starting _now_." Solas replies. "Why does she think you have a crush?"  
  
"Probably because I've been selectively tricking people into _thinking_ I do." Lavellan shrugs. "It amuses me. And it makes me seem more," Lavellan waves a hand as she draws a heating rune on the side of the teapot with her finger. "Approachable? Normal? Average?"  
  
"Relatable." Solas supplies, though he can't help the doubt that slips into his voice. Lavellan nods.  
  
" _Relatable_." Lavellan repeats. "It makes people feel better or something. Good for morale. Do you think I could trick people into thinking it's Cullen or Dorian?"  
  
"Most people know Dorian has strong preferences, and anyone intelligent enough will know that they are not _you_."  Solas replies. "And you would never trick anyone with that. Cullen seems more believable of the two. Though far-fetched and highly unlikely to anyone who knows either of you."  
  
"That's what I thought, I'd feel guilty pulling him in as part of the trick, though." Lavellan says. "I'd make it Sera, but that's too confusing for everyone else. Also it wouldn't be nearly as fun."  
  
"Feelings could be hurt." Solas says.  
  
"Exactly." Lavellan frowns, "Cole will help. Probably. How did you hear about this, anyway? I was certain that Sera was keeping quiet about it."  
  
"I have my ways." Solas replies. "Are you trying to make Cole tea he likes in order to gain his favor?"  
  
"What? Oh, no. I just feel like Cole ought to have at least one type of material sustenance he enjoys." Lavellan replies. "I was so close last time."  
  
She wasn't. Cole dumped the tea in a rose bush when she wasn't looking.  
  
-  
  
"It's a flesh wound. Don't worry about it." Bull says, and Solas gives the man credit, he only sounds about half as dead as he looks.  
  
"That is _a lot_ of flesh to be wounded." Lavellan mutters, a nervous and jittering shape in Solas' peripheral vision.  
  
" _Da'len_." Solas says and Lavellan stills and sits down next to him. "Observe."  
  
Solas gathers his mana for the healing spell, and Lavellan leans next to him, and he gently touches her side with his elbow. She hesitantly holds her hands out next to his and copies the motions of his mana.  
  
"Very good." Solas says and she dismisses the magic, sitting back on her heels as Solas sets to work.  
  
He has enough experience with healing on the field, but it would be better if the Iron Bull was attended to by an actual healer. They ought to return to Skyhold.  
  
"It doesn't even hurt." Bull says when the Inquisitor starts fidgeting again.  
  
"That's because hahren is using frost magic to numb it and slow the bleeding." Lavellan replies. " _And_ you lost a lot of blood."  
  
"Ah. I can make more blood." Bull waves a hand. "No problem."  
  
"Big problem." Cole says, and Solas closes his eyes, lets out a slow breath through his nose.  
  
" _Cole_."  
  
 "Sorry."  
  
"A little warning, Cole." Lavellan says, "Hahren needs to concentrate."  
  
"Big problem." Cole repeats.  
  
"What _kind_ of big problem?"  
  
"Bear." Cole says and points. "She smells us. She smells blood. We smell strange - she won't listen. She doesn't _want_ to listen. She wants us gone. She wants the humans and two-legged things that glitter _gone_."  
  
Lavellan's eyes are wide when Solas looks at her.  
  
"Go. Distract the bear and lead her away. I'll finish what I can here and get the Iron Bull back to camp." Solas says. "Meet us once you've gotten her off us. We can send the Iron Bull back to Skyhold and take Blackwall to deal with this."  
  
"I'm right here." Bull says. "And I'm _fine_."  
  
He is summarily ignored as Lavellan nods, picking up her staff and going after Cole.  
  
"Be careful, hahren. Keep my frontline bodyguard safe." She says, all of them ignoring the Iron Bull’s irritated muttering as he attempts to get up on his own, before she disappears into the trees.  
  
"And to you as well, Inquisitor."  
  
-  
  
"And what's wrong with _you_?" Cullen asks, turning onto the third occupied bed in the infirmary. (Well. Third to be occupied with one of the special few who have the dangerous and somewhat dubious honor of going around Thedas with the Inquisitor.)  
  
"What _isn't_ wrong with me?" Dorian groans, throwing an arm over his face. "Take your dour face away and leave me be. And take that one with you."  
  
Solas comes as close to rolling his eyes as Cullen has ever seen him, shrugging his shoulders and walking to one of the other beds to tend to Cassandra.  
  
Lavellan is napping on top of Blackwall on another bed. Blackwall is missing a good inch and a half from his beard.  
  
"What happened?" Cullen asks, pulling a chair over between Dorian and Blackwall's beds.  
  
Solas and Cassandra are quietly bickering in the bed on the other side of Blackwall. Cullen doubts Solas is going to win this argument, but stranger things have happened in their lives. And he can admit that he would be rather pleased if Solas _did_ manage to get the Seeker to rest properly.  
  
Of the three of them, she's the one with the least injuries by far, but he's still of the personal opinion - shared by many - that it'd be better if she rested a little more.  
  
"A lot of things happened." Dorian says. " _Life_ happened. What's important is that _death_ , to us, did _not_ happen on this particular event."  
  
" _Dorian_."  
  
"I am technically not a soldier, and therefore I do not have to answer to you."  
  
Cullen stares at the side of Dorian's head as Dorian continues to studiously ignore him.  
  
"You don't even need the bed." Cullen points out, because Dorian was just sleeping off magical exhaustion, something he very well could have done in his own quarters.  
  
"It's about _solidarity_." Dorian snaps, waving his hand at the other two beds. Blackwall is practically dead to the world, and Lavellan just fell asleep on his bed waiting for one of them to wake up, by chance.  
  
"Of course." Cullen says. "Are you really not going to tell me what happened?"  
  
"Don't you have people for this sort of thing?"  
  
Cullen, by nature, can be a very patient man. Becoming a templar and then the Commander of the Inquisition has stretched that patience into something of a virtue.  
  
" _Kaffas_ , man, you're annoyingly stubborn." Dorian rolls onto his side. "And I know I'm beautiful in all positions, lights, and situations, but watching me sleep is just disturbing."  
  
"I'm not watching you sleep. I'm watching you pretend to sleep so you can dodge the question of what you did to come back in this state." Cullen replies. "And you're the only one awake I can ask, except Cassandra who really _ought_ to be asleep."  
  
"I'll sleep when I'm _dead_." Cassandra snaps from two beds over.  
  
"Which you might be if you do not sleep _now_." Solas points out, attempting to get her to lie down without actually touching her. The two return to their bickering.  
  
Dorian sighs, "If you must know it involves a certain amount of bog water, undead, and a truly annoying side effect of a certain lightning spell that is incredibly random going incredibly awry. Now if I could just sleep, now, that would be wonderful." 


	146. Chapter 146

“I would like to take a moment to remind everyone here that we would all be dead at least ten times over if it weren’t for the fact that Cassandra exists and we probably ought to thank her for that.” Lavellan says, “And we probably ought to do that by not making her so angry so often.”

“It’s healthy to get angry. You get to vent feelings and stuff.” Sera says.

“You say that, but you’re almost never the target for her _healthy anger_.” Varric points out. “Why is it always me? Half the time, I’m just paying bills and minding my own business.”

Lavellan points a finger at him. “We’re not going to talk about how you hide things from us because that’s all in the past but I’d like to remind everyone present that _sometimes we hide things from the people we care about even though we shouldn’t because we’re not thinking properly_.”

Varric mimes locking his mouth.

“Am I the only one who feels as though this speech is somewhat hypocritical?” Dorian asks Blackwall who just stares into the depths of his ale like it holds all the answers to the universe. “Are you ignoring me?”

“It’s a good strategy.” Krem throws in from Dorian’s other side. “If you pretend you’re listening and look that sullen most people won’t try to actually engage in conversation with you.”

“I am concerned for Cassandra’s health.” Lavellan continues. “She’s awfully red in the face all the time. It’s not even that cold. We have to make a calm environment for her.”

“There is a _hole_ in the friggin _sky_.” Sera snorts, “Calm is _dead_.”

“We have a mortalitasi-necromancer person among us. Also I technically should be dead since I went through the Fade, a hole in time, and got buried by a mountain. Also Cole is technically neither alive or dead.” Lavellan says. “Dead is really just a state of being. Like hungry or sleepy.”

“Does she hear herself when she talks?” Varric asks Cullen who’s mostly half asleep over his plate. Cullen mumbles something that could be _no_ or _leave me alone_ or maybe even _it doesn’t matter_.

“Either way, she’s sleeping right now and by the time she wakes up I want us to have a solid plan of action for how we’re going to make her life easier.” Lavellan says. “We have four hours before the drugs wear off.”

Cullen and Blackwall look instantly awake and aware. “Drugs?”

“You _didn’t_.” Varric says, eyes wide as Lavellan blinks at them. Sera drops the biscuit she’d stolen off of Cullen’s plate.

“No.” Sera says, laughter edging into her voice as she leans over the table toward Lavellan. “You didn’t – not without me – _you did! You drugged Cassandra Pentaghast!”_

“Vivienne and Leliana helped.” Lavellan says.

“I needed to be out of Skyhold yesterday.” Varric says while Cullen and Blackwall exchange increasingly panicked and undisguised looks of terror with each other.

(Because chances are it’s going to be _one of them who deals with Cassandra first_. Or to be more accurate, it’s highly likely Cassandra is _going to deal with one of them first_. They can’t _hide_. Or even _run_.)

“So. Plans.” Lavellan claps her hands together. “Ideas?”

Dorian raises his hand. “Send me back to Tevinter and then maybe across the Waking Sea so I don’t have to watch all of Thedas get destroyed by my own best friend?”

Krem raises his hand. “Drink yourself to death in the next four hours so you don’t have to watch, or at least, if you do, you’ll be too drunk to care?”

Lavellan looks over all of them. “I’m very disappointed in your lack of cooperation, and Varric I can see you trying to leave, you won’t be able to because I’ve ordered soldiers to be posted at all the windows and doors until we figure this out. Also Cole is waiting on the roof to catch anyone who thinks of trying to escape. Bull is helping.”

“That _traitor_.” Krem hisses under his breath.

“We aren’t leaving this room until we sort out a new regimen for Cassandra’s inner peace.” Lavellan declares. “Inquisitor’s orders.”

-

“This is Cole’s hat.” Lavellan calls down, “One of the ones we got in Val Royeaux together.”

Cullen looks up and sees the Inquisitor waving around a blue hat -

“Please be careful, Inquisitor.” He says, he’s still not so sure about the wood of the loft but he can’t seem to get her to share said concerns -

(“If it’s safe for you, it’s safe for me.”)

“Why do you have Cole’s hat? I thought he liked this one. I was wondering where it was.” Lavellan says, hanging off the edge of the loft and doing terrible things to Cullen’s heart as she rolls, examining the hat while _hanging off the edge of a high drop_.

“He gave it to me. I haven’t been able to return it.”

Lavellan hums. “Well if he gave it to you, he must have meant for you to have it. You shouldn’t return it.”

Cole had said something about his sister. And he wasn’t wrong. It did remind him of his sister – and he really ought to write her but he just can’t find the time. And what would he even say?

Lavellan hums what could be a song she heard from one of the Chantry sisters mixed with something from the bard in the tavern before disappearing out of Cullen’s sight.

He can hear her footsteps on the creaking wood and he hopes to everything that she doesn’t stop on a bad floorboard and _die_.

He knows that she can make herself completely silent if she wished to, the noise is for him to know she’s there. It’s an oddly reassuring feeling, to hear her walk and generally just be there.

Cullen allows himself to be lulled into reading and writing, the flicker of his candle, the occasional shadow of one of Leliana’s birds outside the window – they like playing around his tower for reasons he can’t explain – and the sounds of her feet above him (she likes his books), the sounds of people outside and below, and the soldiers doing patrols on the ramparts.

Then there’s a sudden scuffle of feet -

“Cullen!” Lavellan exclaims and he looks up and she’s holding – Cullen chokes on his own spit. Her face is bright red and she’s holding a figure of _The Warden Commander of Ferelden and that isn’t Cullen’s. That isn’t -_

They sell them in the courtyard and he heard Dorian talking about them the other day with Sera and -

Dorian.

Cullen puts his face in his hands and Lavellan is chattering on about something and Cullen can’t actually hear her because of the blood rushing through his ears.

This is Dorian’s fault. Or Leliana’s. Or both.

Probably both.

Maker’s _balls_.

 


	147. Chapter 147

Sera hates it when it rains – not the drizzle misty kind of rain, but the one where it’s like someone is taking a piss on Thedas.

(That’s either one big cock or _hehe._ )

She hates it when it rains, really rains, because it makes the Inquisitor look wrong. Normally she looks alright, kind of doofy and weird. Funny, but when it rains she looks _serious_. She looks scary. And Sera knows Lavellan, she knows her. But when it rains _she doesn’t_ , it’s like the rain washes away her friend. It washes away the girl who sleeps on grass and chews on leaves and juggle acorns.

It rains and her skin goes all pale and watery and it’s like even her weird valla-slimy things melt off her face and her eyes are just _holes_. Normally they’re big and kind of make Sera think of cows and dogs and sometimes even deer or mice, big and dark but it rains and then they turn into knotholes.

And – and normally she looks fine because she kind of looks sleepy and maybe a little like a small snot-nosed brat with her big eyes and her sleepy face but when it rains it’s _scary_. She looks like a demon or something, when the rain makes everything blurry and her eyes turn into these dark round pits that just stare and stare and stare and kind of look like mouths without eyes. And everything is all blurry but you can see her clearly and it’s not even like she’s moving, it’s like you blink and she’s suddenly closer or farther away, not moving all proper or right at all.

Sera hates it when it rains because her friend turns into this _thing_ and Lavellan can chatter but when it rains it just looks like her mouth is moving and the sound gets all weird or sometimes she’s just quiet and looks at you and it’s weird and Sera hates going places with her when it rains because she moves all quiet and has lightning in her fingers and she looks like that and normally it’s fucking _fine_ because it’s sunny or clear and Sera can see _Lavellan_ but not when it rains buckets.

And then when it’s not raining anymore, they’re all wet and everything smells fresh and new and Lavellan looks lost and not as scary but still kind of scary.

Sera hopes that they never have to go somewhere important to meet someone fancy in the rain because it’ll probably make her look bad and Sera doesn’t want her to look bad. She hopes the fancy pants people look bad, but not Lavellan. Especially not to the little people who she’s more likely to scare.

In conclusion, hate the rain. Loves her friend.

-

There’s a weak sounding rasp to her lungs, a little wet, too and that doesn’t sound good. Varric isn’t part of the search party that goes out to find her – because they’ve got to hope, right? They have to hope. Hope has gotten them this far – _she_ has gotten them this far, she could have made it. She could have made it.

She made it through the Fade, to them, through them, through time, back to them – through the explosion and the lyrium and all of this shit. She could have made it through the dragon, through the mountain.

Varric knows he’s probably not a good Andrastian, not as good as he could be. But he really, really hopes that Andraste is looking out for her so-called Herald right now.

Cullen and Cassandra bring her back, looking dazed and frightened and angry all at once and Varric things he can understand that combination because she looks so small and pale. She’s not moving and her lips are blue.

The anchor is a harsh glow on her skin, it looks wrong. Too hard, too jagged. Angry.

Her breathing sounds really bad, too.

“She’s not warm.” Cullen says, as they try to rub something back into her arms and legs. “She’s too cold. She’s too cold.”

Dorian and Solas and Vivienne are with her a lot, using magic to warm  her up by degrees, trying to heal her many, many hurts and keep her alive.

Bull sends in one of his guys to help, along with Dalish but everyone who comes out of that tent looks really, really worried.

The mages work in shifts, one taking over after the other when they get magical exhaustion. Even Dalish isn’t pretending that _it’s a bow_ at this point, that’s how damn serious it is.

Varric is sitting with her now, while Vivienne holds Lavellan’s hands in her own and focuses on keeping her warm.

Lavellan’s lips aren’t blue anymore, but her breath sounds terrible and her skin looks so sallow.

No one is talking about it. No one talks about her outside this tent, and no one talks about anything else, either. Everyone is just quiet and waiting. And scared.

There’s a new kid – Cole, he came in with the Chancellor. He comes in sometimes and he’s a little odd. Strange. He says things. Varric can’t actually repeat what the kid says, he can’t remember them, but he says things. And sometimes Varric feels a little better after he says those things.

But Varric would feel a lot better if Lavellan woke up.

-

Lavellan’s hand is cold, and a little damp. Dorian closes his eyes and she squeezes his hand so hard he feels like something might break.

“Are you ready?” Dorian asks her, because it’s just them and this and this is the end. This is the last part. This could either end Thedas or end the Breach. Either way, it is the end of something and Dorian doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing or a new thing.

“Yes.” Lavellan says, and her voice is deep and strange and almost frightening as she looks towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Dorian has heard Corypheus speak. She almost sounds like him.

It’s a voice of command.

This is what they’ve sharpened her into. Raised her into.

Dorian squeezes her hand and they’re going up against everyone’s greatest nightmare. Proof that it was the Imperium who closed the gates of the Golden City and brought the Blight. A man who cracked the sky. Red lyrium. Blights and death and Archdemons all combined. Templars gone rogue.

“I am ready.” She says, to face destiny, fate, gods and false-gods and empty thrones. Her face is something impossible, wild and tamed and smooth and jagged and silk and lightning. It looks like staring out into the sea as it crashes on rocks or staring into the large moon so close you could touch it or the slow soaking of blood into sand. It looks like looming trees and the gloaming. 

Her face looks like all the world and every shadow in it and Dorian is so afraid for her and what’s about to happen because he knows that even if they are all with her, in the end it is her, the anchor, Corypheus, the Breach.

“I love you, lethallin.” She says, and lets go of his hand as the Dennet himself brings out her hart. 

She and the hart stare into each other’s eyes, and she takes the hart’s face in her hands and presses her forehead to his, hand running over his nose and up the underside of his jaw. The stag closes his eyes and is so very still.

Then they move, the stag moving and bowing as she pulls herself onto his back for what could quite possibly be the last time.

She turns to look over them – and there aren’t many of them, and raises the hand with the anchor, green and brilliant and terrifying like the eye of some great dragon.

“For Haven, for Adamant, for Redcliffe and Therinfal Redoubt! For Ferelden and Orlais, for the King and the Empress! For the Wardens and for the Champion of Kirkwall! For Nevarra and Antiva and the Free Marches!”

The mark wisps out static of brilliant green as she turns towards the Breach, towards the gates of Skyhold, her hart trumpeting as he rears onto his hind legs as she bellows out in the war cry he remembers her practicing on the ramparts so many ages ago -

“For the Inquisition!”


	148. Chapter 148

“Our lives are not our own.” Lavellan tells him, and his bones ache and his head hurts and there’s this pressure mounting behind his eyes that makes him want to curl up and disappear. It’s too hot and it’s too cold at once and everything is _loud_. And he can feel the edges of his temper, drawing closer and closer and he likes to think that he’s a rather moderate man, even and steady but without the lyrium, with the pain, the stress – he doesn’t exactly know for sure.

He doesn’t want to hurt her and he truly wishes that she could just let him be. It is nice that she cares, and if Cullen were in any less pain and any less irate he would most likely appreciate it more. He’s, in fact, certain, that once this bout of withdrawal is over he’ll be very sorry about how he’s acting right now towards her. She only wants to help, after all.

Her voice is low and melodious and it hits just at that point where his bones are hurting and it makes him want to hit, hurt, because _it hurts_ and that’s a foolish train of thought but he was always just on that side of _fool_.

“Our lives,” She repeats, closer and far away at once, “Are not our own. They are shaped and molded by everything we come into contact with. I have been shaped by magic, the anchor, the Conclave, the Inquisition. You.”

He doesn’t look at her, but he knows that she has that expression on her face. It’s the one she uses sometimes – rarely, Cullen hasn’t actually ever had it directed at him, before. But he knows it exists because sometimes she uses it during a judgment and out of all of them apparently the Iron Bull has seen it more times. He calls it her _Keeper_ face and Sera says that she’s seen glimpses of it once or twice and it was startling and frightening, but in an good way.

In a – I’m sorry for whoever stands in her way, sort of way.

Cullen swallows and it feels like fire has run through him and he is nothing but ashes, flickering and sparking and hungry for something to burn, to make them fire again.

“You have been shaped by many things.” She says, “But you are not that. You can continue to be shaped, and to shape others. You are not the lyrium. The Templar of Kinloch hold is not you. The Templar of Kirkwall is not you. You are them no longer. Cut them off. Banish them. They are that which you have burned away. Shed like the skin of a snake. Let them rest. They are dead, gone. Remember them, as you remember those who have passed. But do not hold onto them, for their time is done.”

There is a pounding in his skull that makes him think of fists against a door – help, let me in, I am coming for you, are you ready?

Her hands startle him, cold as she forces his hands to pull apart. Distantly he is startled by that strength – he was clenching his hands together so hard he couldn’t feel them anymore -

Anything to stop the shaking, to keep himself from _reaching_ -

She holds his hands apart, and squeezes his wrists. He holds them still.

She cuts between them with her hand, drawing an even line between his palms.

“Templar Cullen Rutherford of Kinloch Hold, Templar Cullen Rutherford of Kirkwall are gone. They have been put to rest.” She says and it isn’t that easy. She takes his hands and presses his palms together. Her hands are cool and make him think of magic and lyrium and _the blasted, beautiful song_ -

“Our lives are not our own. They are the lives of many in one.” She says. “I am the First of Lavellan, I am a daughter and a sister. I am a mage. I was am the twin-soul of Mahanon of clan Lavellan. I am what some wish and believe to be the Herald of Andraste. I am the Inquisitor of Thedas. I am Poppy. I am the Boss. I am da’len. I am _darling_ and _love_ and _friend_. They are all me. But in turns, I must let them rest and put them away, like clothes I have outgrown – clothes that no longer suit the changing seasons, clothes that are loved or hated, liked or disliked. Watch.”

Cullen watches her hands and the shapes they make.

“I put away the First of Lavellan, because here is not Lavellan’s aravels and sheltering wall of halla.” He watches as her hands part and flow into a cup,going down before pressing her palms together and raising them again, repeating the motions as she speaks. “I am not a daughter or a sister, here for I am meant to lead and inspire and comfort. Not be led, inspired, or comforted. I am not Mahanon’s twin-soul, not here, because there is no room for Mahanon in any of you, in any of _this_.” She takes in a deep breath, her hands a cup, and whispers – hoarse and strong, “Clan Lavellan is no more. They will never return. And so I put them away, and I will not draw them on again. It is time to let them rest. Dareth shiral, First of Lavellan, daughter and sister and twin-soul. Aneth era.”

She is quiet and Cullen feels guilty and he also feels tired and angry and irritated and he just wants her to leave him be because he _knows_ , but still it isn’t -

“Cullen.” She says. “You will survive this sundering of self as I have survived the sloughing of my many skins. You will because you must. Because you have come so far, you will. You think that you do not have the power to do so, but you do. I know that I am young and I know nothing of your struggles. But I know you, the Cullen who leads the Inquisition’s army. I know you, Commander and friend and guardian. Teacher and protector. You will stand above it all and you will rise from these ashes. You will _Command_ them to your will. As you have shaped me, the Inquisition has shaped you. You are too large for those shames, too large to hide behind them, Cullen. They are shadows under your heel. _Stand_.”

-

“What’s the matter, scared?” Sera prods, “Scared that you’re gonna actually lose?”

“I don’t see _you_ betting against Josephine _either_.” Dorian points out.

Sera snorts. “I know when something’s out of my league. I just didn’t know _you_ did, too.”

“Knowing one’s limits is a wonderful quality.” Dorian says. “One that I am well acquainted with, as I am with _every_ good quality.”

“I feel bad because no one ever plays with Josephine.” Lavellan says.

“You play with Josephine because you’re as terrible as she is.” Dorian replies, “You both are dirty, dirty cheats.”

“I don’t cheat.”

“No, you cheat. We just haven’t figured out how, yet.”

“Cullen also plays Josephine. But that’s because he’s a naive fool.” Dorian continues. “So Josephine has the two of you to play with – well, you to actually play against and Cullen to mess with.”

“Cullen’s learning. He could’ve won that last time if he were just a little better at hiding his tells.” Lavellan says. “You’d think he’d be better at that by now.”

“One would think. He has such an admirable thousand yard stare.” Dorian says. “Though he usually only pulls that one out when he’s being consulted on something rather out of his field. Like clothing swatches.”

“Are you still mad at him about that?”

“I will be mad at him about that until the day I _die.”_ Dorian pauses, “No, wait, the things are going, I’ll die first. I’ll be mad about at him about it until the day _he_ dies.”

Sera rolls her eyes. “And de Fer is going to be mad at you _both_ for the results until the day she kills you.”

“Point.”

“Vivienne wouldn’t kill them. We need them.” Lavellan says.

“I like how you say it like that rather than saying you won’t let her or something.” Sera snorts.

“Would you stop her from killing me?”

Lavellan laughs. “She wouldn’t kill you! You’re both just being silly about it.”

“I don’t know. The last bottle of wine she attempted to share with me could be considered poisoning. I’ll never understand Orlesian tastes. And I don’t want to, either.”


	149. Chapter 149

"Dorian said that sometimes love isn't enough - but you say it _is_ , but when he says it isn't he hurts deep down inside, so coiled tightly and knotted together that it bleeds when he touches it, looks at it, think about it, a caress that burns of eyes like his and pride - so it can't be, but to you it is, it glows like an ember waiting for wind, it is _true_. It is the truest thing." Cole says, "I want to ask him but my questions hurt him, I don't mean it, but to heal the hurt it must break first but it just _keeps_ hurting and I don't know what I'm supposed to do, I'm not helping. You heal the hurt, even when the healing hurts, and they _let_ you. Why?"  
  
Lavellan looks at her hands for a moment or two.  
  
"Cole." She says, "Love is enough. It _has_ to be enough. When it isn't, you _make_ it be enough. Because - just because you think you love someone, doesn't mean you'll get it right. If you love that person, you will _try_. You will shape your love into what they need. Love on its own is fine, but you need to make it more. I heard what you and Dorian were saying. Dorian loves his father, and I believe that his father loves him, too."  
  
"Yes, so much regret, longing - _is he safe_?"  
  
"But if it only stops at love then that doesn't help anything." Lavellan says. "Because the action must follow the intention. If his father truly loves him then he shouldn't try to hurt him, change him, erase and mold him into something else. Dorian's father does it because he thinks that's what's best for Dorian. But he isn't thinking about Dorian, not really. So it is love that causes him to act, but the action itself does not reflect love."  
  
Lavellan presses her thumbs together.  
  
"We betray the ones we love because in order to betray there must be trust, affection, and intimacy. I cannot be betrayed by - say, Sutherland, because I do not know Sutherland very well. Nor can I be betrayed by Threnn or Dennet because I may know them but they are not close to me. I would feel sorry if they left us, and I would feel bad if they were hurt, but they could not betray me. Solas could betray me. Blackwall or Varric or the Iron Bull could betray me. Sera and Vivienne could betray me. Because we are connected, and our connection is strong."  
  
"Like so many strands of thread, woven, weaving, world winding together. _I_ could betray you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But - I _wouldn't_."  
  
"No." Lavellan smiles. "And I choose to believe that the others won't betray me, either."  
  
"Because - they make the love into something enough?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
-  
  
"If I apologize will you let me drink things that aren't poison?" Dorian asks, because - to be completely and utterly frank - things are getting ridiculous and he can't just be expected to drink piss and water for the rest of his life at Skyhold.  
  
"I assure you that I have no idea of what you mean." Josephine responds, the absolute picture of feigned ignorance.  
  
"I know you're the one who's ordered everyone - everyone! Even _Cabot_! - to deny me anything better than watered down ale. And Vivienne - how in the world did you even get people to say no to her? The Inquisitor can barely mumble the word in her presence and - I love her, _really_ \- that girl has about as much situational awareness as a walnut. A shriveled up walnut."  
  
"She has _some_ situational awareness. When she feels like having one." Josephine protests, ever so diplomatic -  
  
Dorian throws up his hands.  
  
"I apologize for insulting Antiva. Please, Josephine, I'm begging you."  
  
"Have you replaced the other bottles you took?"  
  
"Kaffas, woman, if I replaced every bottle I took before drinking another I'd go broke and never drink. How did you even - how did you even know what I said anyway? Who told you? Was it - it was _her_. That little - _betrayed_! Betrayed by my own partner in time travel!" Dorian whirls on his heel, "Lavellan! _Lavellan_! Where are you? We are going to be having words!"  
  
-  
  
"You got something to say, Boss?" Bull says as Lavellan watches Dorian, Solas, and Vivienne argue back and forth across the table. It's not often that they all get together to eat like this - mostly because said three mages refuse to be seen being civil with each other in public and it usually takes something pretty heavy to drag them all down to the main hall together. Usually an injury or a dip in Lavellan's mood.  
  
Neither of which is the case this time - maybe the kid really is the Herald of Andraste or something if she can get this to happen -  
  
"Nothing." Lavellan says, eyes still going back and forth between the other three, "Just thinking."  
  
The other three have been arguing something about magic for the better part of an hour - it's making Sera fidgety, she's probably going to do something if they don't shut up soon, and Bull can't really blame her. Magic is - _magic_.  
  
Bull hums, and he knows their boss is smarter than a lot of people give her credit for.  
  
It's probably something about the eyes. They kind of just make you think of baby animals or cattle.  
  
He's heard her talking with Dalish and the other elves of Skyhold - the ones that aren't Solas and Sera. She sounds pretty damn smart when she isn't around the rest of them.  
  
She may not have been trained in a fancy Circle or Academy or in the Fade but she knows some things.  
  
"You sure it's nothing?" Bull says and Lavellan narrows her eyes as Dorian and Vivienne team up again Solas.  
  
"It's just." She says, tapping her fingers on the table, "Never mind."  
  
Bull waits, because she's good at holding her tongue when she really wants to, but she probably doesn't this time.  
  
Lavellan lets out a loud sigh and everyone turns to look at her and Bull waits because she's good at dragging him into her skits and scenes and he doesn't even mind because it's hilarious as all hell to watch. Interesting.  
  
"What's wrong, Boss?" Bull says, just this side of oblivious and _oh, you were saying something?_  
  
Lavellan lets out another of those long sighs – more fake and obvious, to him at least, now then the ones from before - and says -  
  
"It's really nothing. I'm sure that they've already considered this."  
  
"Considered what?" Dorian asks, "About?"  
  
"Well." Lavellan replies, eyes lowered to her supper as she prods at a square of squash. " _Oh_ , it's nothing. You three have probably already talked this out. I probably just didn't hear it. I'll ask you later, I don't want to interrupt your discussion with something so _basic_."  
  
"Do go ahead, darling." Vivienne says, "Hearing you talk gives me a break from listening to these two."  
  
Solas and Dorian glare at her but Solas motions her to speak.  
  
Lavellan takes in a breath.  
  
"It's just that - well, if one were to _really_ consider shortening the casting time to the spell of immolation wouldn't the most important thing to consider be the tessellation? If you compress the mana in the tessellation you would need a smaller amount of space, therefore a slightly slower casting time and less physical energy would be expended in casting the tessellation rune out. Smaller space, tighter compression, same amount of mana, larger explosion. Of course, with repeated application it would cause less damage over time because of the loss of ambient mana in the air being ignited but in theory, like Dorian was saying, this could be overcome in a similar manner to the ambient storm magic most mages tend to gain with repetitive casting of lightning spells. However the ignition process differs between immolate and arc lightning in that immolation causes multiple chain reactions more like a web than a single chain arc as in arc lightning and the expenditure of ambient mana can't replenish fast enough to allow for the sort of duration and sustainability cage lightning provides. But the tessellation of the immolate spell could, again, in theory, be compressed further to a two dimensional plane, reducing the area even further and since the spell is released upon casting there is no additional strain upon the caster in holding the compression and less ambient magic is used up per incantation. Yes?"  
  
Lavellan slowly looks up and blinks at the table.  
  
Vivienne's face is completely blank, Dorian's mouth hangs open a little and Solas' eyebrows are raised extremely high. Bull mentally slaps Lavellan on the back. That's his girl.  
  
Sera snickers somewhere down the table before bursting into full on laughter, "Oh, she schooled you!"  
  
"And here I thought I couldn't possibly adore you more." Dorian sighs, laughing as he reaches over to pinch her cheek. "Holding back on us were you?"  
  
"I have no idea what you mean." Lavellan replies.  
  
Solas and Vivienne both smile for a moment before Vivienne's face returns to mild amusement and disdain, and Solas' face returns to its default of contemplative.  
  
Lavellan's knee nudges his underneath the table and he squeezes the back of her neck for a moment before reaching across her to get more bread.  
  
Clever, clever girl. 


	150. Chapter 150

"Cole, you can read anyone as long as there is something in them that hurts, yes?" Dorian asks -  
  
"Usually without permission." Blackwall tacks on.  
  
"And at the worst moments. We need to work on your timing, kid." Varric throws in.  
  
"Yes." Cole answers. "Heal the hurt. If it doesn't hurt, I don't _need_ to see. It has to call, sing, glow for me, for help, for _anyone_."  
  
"Well. If that's so, how come you only - well. You never do that for the _Inquisitor_? You always go on about the insides of everyone else's head but hers. I highly doubt that she _doesn't_ have some sort of old hurt for you to dredge up and smooth over."  
  
" _No_. That's not true. I try. But it's different." Cole replies, confusion in his voice as he moves his head from side to side, face hidden by the wide brim of his hat. "There are many old hurts, _old songs,_ a familiar pattern, a repeating melody, a chorus echoing above the plains, _We are the last of the elvhen, never again shall we submit_. It is an old and shared hurt, stretched thin with hunger. There is hurt there."  
  
"But you never speak of it when we're out going about as you tend to do." Dorian says, "Why is that?"  
  
Cole is quiet for a moment. "She's harder to see. She burns, brilliant, beautiful, beckoning, Passion and the Passion of - _stars_ , infinite and compressed into one, see me, watch me, so blind you cannot see shadows, birds in front of the sun. I can hear her hurt, but it is hard to put into words. The words are _harder_ with her. Sometimes they aren't words, but tastes and songs, and those songs and tastes are hard to bring back. I try, sometimes. And she smiles and it is good for a while, but the old hurt is thin and paper. It smoothes itself over, stitches itself together like so much glass."  
  
"Well I didn't understand any of that." Dorian says after a moment, "What about you two? Either of you catch that?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Not a thing."  
  
"It's the _song_." Cole says, sounding a little frustrated, "You'd understand if you could hear the song."  
  
-  
  
"Look." Bull says, picking Cole up and setting him off to the side, "Like I said. You're one of _my_ kids. Squirrelly and a little philosophical, but a good kid and one of mine. So you stay here and - do whatever it is you do when you aren't doing the other thing while I go get my other kid and then I'll deal with the asshole who was messing with you both."  
  
"I'm not a squirrel." Cole says, sounding a little uncertain and Bull gives him a quick pat on the head - Krem is right, he is getting soft - and goes off to find the Inquisitor and hopefully get her out of whatever mess she's landed them into this time.  
  
Madam Vivienne has washed her hands of the rest of them entirely and gone to the room she's sharing with Lavellan for the night to do whatever it is the ma'am does when she's not with them or entertaining people with important names that are longer than they are tall.  
  
Bull double checks, keeping Cole on his right to make sure the kid doesn't do anything funny - he's still sitting on the box Bull put him on, looks confused, probably still trying to figure out the squirrel comment - and goes to find where the Inquisitor probably might be if he's unlucky.  
  
She's only in the first place he looks if she got in _trouble_ and said trouble is working to keep her there.  
  
And she's in the first place he looks and she definitely looks like she's in trouble. He keeps telling her that she shouldn't be binding her mark when they go to places like this. Wave it around, she'd be safer, less Vints and stuff in the boonies, more devoted and racist shits.  
  
The devotion and fear of giant holes in the sky wins over the racism.  
  
Bull sighs and Lavellan's got a good fighting stance going but they haven't really taught her much about all out brawls - something they'll fix when they get back to Skyhold - so Bull clears his throat because it's one thing to be a racist shit to a thin wisp of a girl who's race has been subdued and ritually exterminated for a pretty big chunk of history and it's another to be a racist shit to a giant guy with horns and an eyepatch who's entire race is known as one giant evil thing fighting another giant evil group for as long as anyone can figure.  
  
And just as he clears his throat Lavellan goes forward, aims for someone's throat, and gives the best punch he's seen her give to date and lets out a startle burst of noise when the guy goes down hard. They all turn to stare at the downed one and Lavellan jumps up like a surprised cat, arms flung in the air and she laughs like a tiny firecracker or star -  
  
"Bull look! I did it!"  
  
-  
  
"Hahren would you fight for my honor if I asked you to?" Lavellan says and Solas can only assume that this is because of - _the Antivan_.  
  
"Yes." Solas says and is only a little - well. Embarrassed is a word to use. Humbled might be another. Surprised is also a good word. He's a little of all three to admit that so easily. Instantly.  
  
Lavellan has been sulking for the better part of an hour, more over the fact that she was the one who got in trouble than the fact that she was tricked, he thinks.  
  
"There are a great many deal of people who already do fight for your honor." Solas points out.  
  
"That's different." Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "But you'd do it if I asked, yes?"  
  
"Yes." Solas says, "But you are _not_ asking."  
  
"No." Lavellan hums, "I just wanted to _know_."  
  
Lavellan puts her head on her arms, peering over the edge of his desk to watch him make copies of his notes to hand over to Dorian. Between Dorian and Vivienne he'd rather it were Dorian he gave his notes to. That woman is insufferable.  
  
"How come I couldn't fight him?" She asks. "No one let me fight him."  
  
"Because he's an assassin."  
  
"I've fought assassins."  
  
"This is different. He is a friend of Leliana's."  
  
"Poor taste in friends."  
  
Solas raises an eyebrow without looking away from his notes, Lavellan huffs.  
  
"Leliana's friends tend to run a shade more deadly than what you're used to." Solas continues. "To my knowledge, this Zevran was also a veteran of the Blight. And he was of assistance in Kirkwall. Rather than fighting him, perhaps you should take the time to ask him some questions."  
  
They fall into silence as Lavellan ponders it over.  
  
"Do you think I could _trick_ him and Bull into fighting?" Lavellan asks, "It'd make me feel a little better."  
  
"It is times like these where I wonder why you were not called da'fen." Solas deadpans.


	151. Chapter 151

Cullen wonders how long this is going to take, and what exactly the Inquisitor is looking for - all questions that, in hindsight, he perhaps should have asked earlier when she originally asked for his assistance. It's not that he's getting tired or that he's particularly bothered by the current situation, rather they've been standing on the battlements for at least an hour and he had told Rylen he would only be a moment.  
  
Though, the man most likely knows that Cullen has been stalled. No doubt gossip about the Inquisitor's latest activities has circled the castle already.  
  
It takes two people to hold Lavellan whenever she needs to be lifted up to reach something for a prolonged period of time. Mostly because, unless you are the Iron Bull, she tends to wobble and waver and sway and swing her upper half around and it's rather hard to hold her up without losing balance and falling.  
  
So Cullen and Sutherland - the boy did not sign up for this, though he doesn't look particularly put out by any of it - have each been holding one of her legs and boosting her up for quite some time now. Sutherland seems to be stuck in endless loop of gawping up at the Inquisitor with sheer awe in his eyes and turning to look at Cullen as if _Cullen_ had all the answers to his questions about what they're doing and Cullen has been mentally counting how many times Dorian, Varric, and Leliana have walked past them, most likely for teasing fodder.  
  
"Inquisitor." Cullen asks, when this mental tally starts getting alarmingly high - there is no reason for Dorian to be walking the battlements at all, really -, "Is there anything we can do to help you - do whatever it is you are doing?"  
  
Lavellan hums, eyes squinted at the horizon.  
  
"We are _waiting_." Lavellan says.  
  
"For?"  
  
"Something _interesting_."  
  
Which is actually a rather good answer, considering that she has answered the same question on prior occasions with "I'm not sure" and "I don't know" and "I'm sure we'll find out" and once, with the enigmatic " _Soon_ ".  
  
Sutherland looks all the more perplexed and Cullen looks in the direction she's been staring at for the past hour or so.  
  
"Need you be up high to see it?"  
  
Lavellan sways a little in contemplation, somewhat like the poppy flower Varric calls her, causing Cullen and Sutherland to readjust themselves for her new position.  
  
"I suppose not. I thought if I were higher up I'd see better. Please put me down, now. Thank you."  
  
Cullen can't help the small sigh of relief when they kneel and let her hop off their hands. Cullen flexes his hands as Lavellan meanders over to the edge of the battlements and continues to stare of into the horizon. Sutherland is still looking at her like she's the literal embodiment of everything good in life but he's also giving Cullen a series of increasingly confused and imploring glances.  
  
Most likely, this boy and his group will be treated to multiple rounds of drinks later for passing this round of initiation to the Inquisition with flying colors. Everyone plays a part in Lavellan's eccentric and seemingly random bouts of - _strangeness_ at least once.  
  
Lavellan taps her foot, eyes still focused on the horizon before she turns and looks at Leliana's tower.  
  
Cullen thinks that it's either that she's grown on him or he's really gotten used to expecting the worst because he puts a hand on her shoulder and says, " _No_."  
  
Lavellan sighs, forlorn like he's just denied her supper, like he's a parent who's just sent his child to bed without when she's been naughty. Then she turns to Sutherland, beams at him, and jumps off the castle walls into one of the trees.  
  
"She does that." Cullen says. "Don't worry. You'll get used to the heart-pounding terror of watching her do it."  
  
-  
  
"I like to think of her as a gift. An _unexpected_ gift that you cannot return or pass on to anyone else." Dorian says. "Over time you get used to your little unexpected gift and grow to become resigned to being the bearer of said gift and being stuck with it for the rest of your undoubtedly _short_ and _miserable_ life. But at least your gift goes well with your wardrobe and that is definitely something to smile about."  
  
Lavellan is passed out on her face in a snowdrift.  
  
"We should probably move her." Varric says, "Or at least roll her over."  
  
"She likes it that way." Blackwall says as Josephine continues to stare at their Herald with a strange blank face. "When she wakes up all she has to do is open her mouth and eat the snow for water. Or so she says."  
  
Josephine raises a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes.  
  
"That's one way to get a fever down, I suppose. And then _die_." Dorian says, "This most likely does not look good for us. Weren't some important people coming for some inane reason?"  
  
"To see the remains of the Temple." Josephine says.  
  
"We could just move her to a different snowdrift." Varric points out. "One that isn't easily seen."  
  
"Someone please move her to a bed. In a building." Josephine says, "With a roof. And a fire."  
  
"Should the building be _on_ fire or should there be a fire _in_ the building?"  
  
Josephine glares.  
  
Dorian raises his hands, "Joking. Just a _joke_."  
  
Varric snorts as Blackwall kneels to gather the sprawled Herald into his arms.  
  
There's a perfect imprint of her face in the snow, except for around the mouth because apparently she must have woken up once or twice and eaten some snow.  
  
Their Herald of Andraste is strange.  
  
-  
  
"Now that you have multiple partners for your games, you should be much happier. Variety is the spice, after all." Leliana says.  
  
"You'd think so, yet everyone I play against cheats." Cullen says, "Dorian cheats even worse than you do."  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Leliana says. "And don't you play against Lavellan, now? She doesn't seem the sort to cheat."  
  
"She cheats, sometimes, but mostly we talk." Cullen says, "She isn't too solid on the rules just yet. And then we end up talking about battles from books and history and acting them out on the board. No one wins there."  
  
"Lavellan does because she always wins. She got you to _play_ , after all. That is a win for her, no?"  
  
"Yes, but not an actual - the point is that half the time I play someone it ends up being a game of whether I can spot the cheating." Cullen waves a hand before opening the door to Josephine's office for Leliana. "As amusing as it sometimes is, I do miss a straightforward game of chess."  
  
"You could play someone who doesn't cheat."  
  
"I could, but does that person exist in Skyhold?"


	152. Chapter 152

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser Spoilers.

"It hurts you." Cole says, voice a low whisper and her face is stone. She is not meant to be _stone_. Stone cracks. Stone breaks. Stone shatters. Stone rings out, hollow and void, empty and _devoid_ , waiting and lost and wandering. She is the _wrong kind of stone_.  
  
Her face is stone and her arm is nothing but cracks and it is the wrong _blood_ of the wrong _stone_.  
  
"Yes." She says, and her voice is a hollow bell, the kind that rings at funerals and deaths. She is so far away, fading and faded, different and old and new, all new faded for _him_. Fading for him. She smiles, empty and emptying, it is all flowing out of her like so much love and fire, "But it hasn't killed me. So this can only make me stronger, yes?"  
  
"It _will_ kill you." Cole says. "Fading, the Passion of - _stars_ , going, going. Smothered and swallowed. You are dying. You are leaving. You are leaving us _behind_."  
  
"Yes." She says, and her voice is a crackling flame, something familiar, something almost warm but _blistering_ too and Cole only knows this face of her from dreams.  
  
"I can't fix it."  
  
"No." And she is an endless river, cutting stone. Cole holds the air around her hand of stone and _wrong_.  
  
"I miss you. You are - we are friends. I wish I could help you."  
  
Her other hand, the giving hand, touches his face.  
  
"Don't tell them, Cole. If you wish to help - don't _tell_ them."  
  
"You're going to leave us." Cole says, "And then you will _die_. You aren't coming back."  
  
Lavellan strokes her thumb over his cheek and he leans his face into her palm and she is warm and again she is the Passion of - briefly, here, returning, for him, fading, for _them_.  
  
"Wish me well, elgar'falon." She says, "One more time. Just once more."  
  
"Dareth shiral." Cole says, in a language beyond love, "Thank you. You helped me heal so many hurts. Whatever happens, you were _real_."  
  
-  
  
In one hand, there is the green - poisonous and bright, blinding - of the Fade, and in the other there is magic, lightning and fire and frost and spirit. In one hand she holds their beginning and in the other she holds their end.  
  
Cassandra never though she would end up following a mage, a Dalish mage, no less. But here she is. Here they are.  
  
The Inquisition and Lavellan holds the sword - ceremonial - above her head and there is something in her that Cassandra is just beginning to see.  
  
The girl will always be a _girl_ \- her charge, her _responsibility_ -  
  
Cassandra brought her into this, she'll damn well see her out of it, too.  
  
But there's also something underneath that girl that Cassandra is beginning to recognize. Something hard, a layer of stone beneath tilled earth. The heart of a tree underneath softer bark. Precious metal and uncut gems trapped in layers of stone and dirt.  
  
There is so much on her young shoulders, and it's true that she's a little older than the Hero of Ferelden when she fought the Fifth Blight, but that's still too young. And the rest of this is all so large.  
  
Maybe she's growing to match it.  
  
The new Inquisitor of Thedas is young. And she is nothing like Cassandra ever expected her to be.  
  
And Cassandra will go in front of her with her shield held high and sword tight, to archdemons, darkspawn, red Templars, Tevinter agents, and ancient magisters themselves.  
  
-  
  
"I thought you were mad at me." Lavellan says when Sera wordlessly gets onto her horse.  
  
"I am." Sera says, "But just 'cos I'm mad at you doesn't mean that I'm gonna let you go and fight demons and shit by yourself. I'm mad, not an ass. Doesn't mean I want you dead."  
  
"You were yelling about putting an arrow through my face."  
  
"I didn't mean it. Much."  
  
"Is this a truce?"  
  
"Just don't talk to me and we'll be fine." Sera says, "Now are we going or what?"  
  
Dorian and the Iron Bull exchange looks and sigh before orienting their mounts to walk between Lavellan and Sera.  
  
"Should I ask?" Dorian mutters to Bull out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
"And risk setting that barrel of gaat-lok on fire?" Bull snorts, "Leave it."  
  
Sera is glaring at the road ahead and Lavellan seems to have quietly folded herself into her own head, expression fixed into something half pleasant, half glass-eyed doll. The haunted kind you don't want to give to your children. Unless your children have been particularly ill behaved and you wish to teach them a lesson.  
  
Dorian sighs.  
  
"Well if no one is going to talk this is going to be a very long and tiresome ride out." Dorian declares and, as if by magic, Lavellan and Sera pull ahead of them and round on each other and start bickering.  
  
"You couldn't just leave it, could you?" Bull groans.  
  
-  
  
"Cullen, hello."  
  
It's been months since he's last seen her or heard from her and Cullen swears he almost has a heart attack right then and there.  
  
"Are you alright, Cullen?" Lavellan asks and Cullen closes his eyes and breathes.  
  
"Yes, forgive me. I was startled." He says, opening his eyes to focus on her, to see the changes. He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to the absence of her arm, of her mark. She has always been so - so boundless and fluid. To see the arm end so abruptly will always be strange. Like she's been cut off - part of her erased, washed away from the world like an ink stain. An unpainted part of a canvas. "You have been well, my lady?"  
  
The corner's of her eyes crinkle when he calls her that - "You could call me my name." "I feel it would be improper, my lady." "You and Blackwall are so _strange_." - and around her there is this -  
  
She is simply faded. It is not - it is not necessarily a bad thing. She is brighter in some areas, just as brilliant in others. But overall, somehow, it seems that she's _faded_. Like paper left exposed for too long, bleached by the sun.  
  
"I suppose I'm alright." She says, swaying on her feet a little like the Poppy Varric calls her, "I missed the dog."  
  
Cullen laughs, "He's missed you as well."  
  
Lavellan looks around, waiting and Cullen smiles.  
  
"He's with my sister, at the moment. Her children spoil him."  
  
"He's a good dog, he deserves spoiling." Lavellan replies, brightening, "Your _sister_?"  
  
"Yes." Cullen holds out his arm for her, "I'm visiting, at the moment."  
  
Because Lavellan so rarely knows exactly where she is. She has an uncanny knack of just going where she needs to be without knowing it.  
  
"I'm sure Mia would love to meet you. She found all your letters incredibly entertaining." No doubt Mia can't wait to spoil the girl, too. Or at the very least, pry as much embarrassing information out of her as possible. "Shall we?"  
  
Lavellan straightens up and gives the Orlesian bow drilled into her for how many months, and takes Cullen's arm.  
  
"Ser Rutherford."  
  
"Lady Lavellan." Cullen pauses, "And where is you stag, might I ask?"  
  
Lavellan hums, "Around. I'm sure he'll come find me when it's time to move on."  
  
"Of course."


	153. Chapter 153

“I didn’t do it, though.” Lavellan says, peering over the window ledge as Dorian storms about the castle. “I wasn’t the only one _there_. You were there too. You were the one who told Josephine on me.” Lavellan turns and glares at Bull. “Why doesn’t anyone believe that you and Josephine get along and things? You have _tea parties_.”

“No. She drinks tea and I eat cake.” Bull corrects her as he sharpens the edge of his sword. “That’s not a tea party.”

“You gossip. Leliana says anything involving gossip is a tea party.” Lavellan says. “But that isn’t the point! You told on them to Josephine and now Dorian and Vivienne think I’m the one who told and _that’s not fair!_ I can keep secrets! I have social awareness! Sometimes!”

“It’s good that you know it’s only sometimes.” Bull snorts.

Lavellan stretches out her leg from where she’s crouched by the window to nudge Bull’s ankle. “Fix it. Please? Please, the Iron Bull, fix it?”

Bull hums as he continues to work on his sword, he probably should mend the grip. It’s getting a little frayed, kind of blood stained in a bad way.

Lavellan continues to whine and poke at his ankle with her foot until he reaches down and closes her ankle in his hand, pulling her away from the window and holding her upside down. She kicks her other leg in the air as she whines.

“Dorian’s mad, Vivienne is mad, and they can’t drink, and they both think it’s _me_.” Lavellan says, twisting and wrapping her upper body around his leg, legs stuck straight up in the air as Bull adjusts his sword so he doesn’t accidentally stab her in the gut. “But it was you and why does no one actually believe you and Josephine talk to each other? You talk to each other all the time!”

“Probably because I’m a giant guy with horns and a hard on for violence.” Bull muses, “And she’s.” He waves his hand.

Lavellan kicks out, nearly hitting one of his horns. He turns his head and Lavellan kind of just rolls and sprawls on the ground, arm loosely curled around his foot.

“It wasn’t me. Why do I always get in trouble for things that aren’t my fault? The Conclave wasn’t my fault. I didn’t start the mage rebellion. I didn’t tell Josephine that Vivienne and Dorian insulted Antiva.”

“You just have that kind of face, Boss.”

-

“What have we said about feeding her after midnight?” Varric says when he opens the door and finds Lavellan attached to a corner of the ceiling, sleeping and curled up around a helmet. He’s not sure who’s helmet it is, but it kind of looks like Bull’s.

“Or watering her.” Krem adds on. “How’d she get up there?”

“Magic.” Dorian deadpans. “Better question – how do we get her down?”

“Blood magic, probably.” Bull says, “How’s she staying up there?”

“More blood magic.” Krem says.

Lavellan twitches, and curls up a little bit more, nuzzling the helmet.

“Skyhold holds her, safe and held and home.” Cole says, starling everyone assembled. “Sorry.”

Dorian breathes in deep and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s too early for this.”

“She’s happy there.” Cole continues, “She dreams of all of you and it is nice because there are flowers and the hands of babies but they are not soft and they are not blackberries. It is a good thing. It’s a wonderful thing.”

“Well, falling and cracking her head open isn’t such a wonderful thing, kid.” Varric says. “Any ideas that aren’t blood magic on how to get her down?”

“Maybe if we knew how she got up, we could figure out how to get her down.”

-

“I respect you deeply and am always glad for your advice and am honored to be of assistance to you, but this is not part of any of that and I am _leaving_.” Cullen says, and is quickly cut off when Cassandra puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re the tie breaker.” Cassandra says and Cullen really wishes he could be anywhere but here, right this moment.

“Can I remain neutral?”

“No.” Everyone assembled says at once and Cullen looks at the faces around him and sighs.

“What if I said I have no opinion and no authority on the matter?”

“We’ve already proven that otherwise.” Josephine says.

“Just say it and rip it off like a scab.” Dorian says.

Lavellan is staring at the side of his head with an intensity he thinks she should probably reserve for other things, like judgments or fights. Or even her lessons on Orlesian manners.

Cullen takes in a deep breath, ignores Varric and Solas not so subtly laughing at his predicament literally behind his back, and says -

“There was definitely some sort of romantic tension between the hero of the ancient myth of the siege of the Dales and his close friend and mage partner that builds and is completely expressed in his reaction to his partner’s death at the hands of his enemy. It was not just friendship.”

The words actually physically hurt to admit out loud because he’s the Commander of their army, not a literary scholar, and he really, really isn’t here to talk about romances in said literature.

He just wants to do his job and play chess and be mostly left to his duties.

Cullen rues the day that Leliana found him paging through one of the few books he managed to keep through his entire time as a Templar and bring with him from Kirkwall. If he had known that telling her one of his preferred pass times was reading works of the fantastic and history would lead to this he would have given the book to someone else and pretended to have never read anything in his life but the Chant.

Too late for that, he supposes, because Lavellan shoves a book in his face and asks him to explain one of the metaphors while the rest of the assembled people he dubiously calls friends start arguing once more.

“I knew there was a brain underneath that hair.” Varric says.

“I sometimes wish there weren’t.” Cullen replies.

“The struggles of the educated.” Solas says, and how he got out of this debate Cullen has no idea, but what he wouldn’t give to find out.


	154. Chapter 154

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

She isn’t quite sure how she makes it. She doesn’t know how she did it, and she doesn’t even know if she _did_ make it. Sometimes, Lavellan isn’t entirely sure that Solas _didn't_ kill her after all -

And that’s not wrong to say. That he killed her. It was a slow death. A sad one. But he did. And she isn’t angry with him over it, most of the time. He didn’t mean to. He truly didn’t mean to do it.

But at the end of the day, she has to remember -

A wolf is a wolf is a wolf.

You may love the wolf, and the wolf may love you, but that does not change that the wolf is a creature of fangs and stars, ice and snow, stone and shadows, hunts and traps.

Lavellan doesn’t know how she makes it. How she lasts long enough for anyone to find her.

She remembers the exaltation – finally being able to say goodbye, this is my one wish, my last important thing I need to do, one goodbye, at least one person I get to let go of – and the pain. She remembers him turning away from her. She remembers the sound her heart makes when it finally cracks and breaks and shivers asunder.

She remembers the pain, and she remembers something -

Something Mahanon, the sliver of him still left in this world, perhaps -

Something the Iron Bull, spy and body guard and _hers, never the Qun’s, never again, she’ll burn them to ash if they think they can take him from her, not ever -_

Something Leliana, spy and bard, hero and shadow, the left hand that grasps yours and never lets go, beautiful because and despite all the blood, you are better than this, Leliana, you are _better_ -

Something Solas, sorrow and practicality, pragmatism and longing, sheer will and drive and pride and _never again -_

And maybe something, something just her. Something sleeping, something she’s tucked away like Keeper and Ghilan’nain’s changing of shapes, something Dalish in the soil, something in her roots that howls like wind and wolves and roars like bears and tidal waves, _I am the last of the Lavellan, never again will I submit._

And her hand is a knife, magic, raw and tears, slow, and she cuts. There is pain. So much pain of all sorts.

Dorian describes wine as a bouquet of flavors. Vivienne describes perfume as a combination of scents. Josephine describes people as a puzzle of cultures and memories.

Lavellan describes pain as different types of hello’s and goodbyes. The pain of parting with the familiar, the fear of the unknown stranger.

Goodbye, Lavellan. Goodbye, Herald of Andraste. Goodbye, marked and chosen one. Goodbye, da’len. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. _Dareth shiral._

Sleep well, in the ashes of the earth. I will never call upon your face again.

Hello, faceless girl. Who will I be when I am you? Will I die forever? Will I live on? Will I love again? Will I be touched by more ugly things? Will I be able to protect them, this time? Hello. Hello, hello, hello. _Andaran atish’an._

Lavellan wakes up and invisible parts of her are gone and she has died, she has passed through death and come back again. She will never reclaim those pieces again.

Cole looks at her, quiet and unnoticed as everyone swarms around her and there is work to be done, there will always be work to be done and Lavellan will do it. She has not been given a choice.

He looks into her and knows. He knows and she looks into him and together they share in the knowing. The space where her hundreds of dead and dying and new and growing faces spread out before, beneath, and above her. The space where Cole and his selves and his love bloom and spark and blow in the invisible wind of love. There they share it. The secret that grows and is not going to be a secret for long.

Inquisitor Lavellan is dead.

Whatever she is now -

It will never be _da’len_ again.

-

She loves, but sometimes he has to wonder if she hates. For if there is one, surely the other would also follow. Does she hate him, he wonders, or would she, if she knew? Would she hate him?

For his sins? The crime he has done to their people? His negligence? His ignorance? His inaction? The list is long, but most recent -

The deceit, the lies – the scar on her hand and the scar upon the heavens, the deaths at Haven, the deaths that will pave her road forward in the days, weeks, months to come?

She loves, and she loves deeply. Anyone can see this. It is not something she hides. She shows it freely – she does not give it freely, and once she has given it, she does not take it back. Solas does not think she knows how.

But love spoils. It is a delicate thing, easily changed and altered in form and face.

She does not know his faces.

He is grateful for her love. It is more than he ever expected – her respect, her politeness, perhaps, but not this.

She is too trusting and it will hurt her. It hurts her already.

He brushes her hair from her face, careful as he throws a spare painting tarp over her. She curls up, small and trusting, fast asleep.

He did not expect to find one he would so proudly, warmly, call his. _Da’len_.

Nor did he expect to find someone who would willingly, proudly, and enthusiastically call him hers. _Hahren_.

It makes the goodbye harder.

So _don’t_. A voice inside of him says. Tell her. _Tell her the truth she has been denied._

But he must. He must leave. He must hide. He must keep this from her. He would not tear her. He would not make her choose. He would not place this on her shoulders. It is his to bear. It is his to hold. He started this, after all.

He will also end this. Someday, perhaps she might not see that day – but.

The work she does here will not be done in vain.


	155. Chapter 155

“You want to partner with the _Qun_?” Solas hisses, and she looks startled and she ought to be. Has she considered what she is doing? It is fine to look for allies and resources – after all, this Inquisition of hers – theirs, his, hers – is small and just barely getting itself together.

But to put themselves _next to the Qun?_

“I never said that.” She says, soft and gathering herself to argue as if this were a simple debate over text or legend, a homework exercise to be discussed. “We’ve been receiving Bull’s Ben-Hassrath reports this entire time. We’re already working with the Qun in a sense.”

“You do not work with the Qun.  You work _in_ the Qun.” Solas corrects.

“Bull said this wasn’t a conversation invasion. They just want the Venatori and red lyrium gone.”

“The Iron Bull is a small part of a complex machine. They don’t tell him everything.” Solas says, “He could be lying. That is his job, is it not? To lie?”

“That’s unfair of you, hahren. The Iron Bull hasn’t lied to me.” Lavellan protests, mouth twisting with displeasure and hurt. “He’s been loyal to me. To us.”

“On order of the Qun. And you don’t know if he hasn’t lied to you. You don’t know what he keeps from you – it is his job to conceal, to hide, to distort, to – “

“I can tell when people hide things from me.” She interrupts, voice low and clear and sharp, “I am not a stupid da’len. I am _your_ da’len, and I am the da’len to many others. I have learned to scent the truth and I have learned how others take to hiding it. I am no _fool_.”

“Then why do you put so much faith in the Qunari?” Solas returns, “The ultimate form of institutionalized slavery, where the slaves do not even know they are slaves, where freedom is taught to be a poison?”

“This is not about the Qun.” Lavellan’s hands curl into fists, “It’s about the Venatori and a shared enemy. And every Dalish knows that when you and your rival have a shared enemy, you ignore the blood between you and band together to fight the enemy until they’re _gone_ so you can go back to going at each other’s throats in peace. That’s how it _work_ s. That’s how the Gray Wardens work, that’s how the shems destroyed the Dales, that’s how Tevinter was overthrown, that’s how it _all works_.”

“They are liars.” Solas hisses out, because he will not allow the Qun into Thedas, he will not let them spoil everything – to take this out from underneath his nose -

“So are you.” Lavellan says, chin raised high, eyes dark, vallaslin sharp like a knife as she speaks. “You are a liar also, _hahren_. Everyone lies, and I am not a fool. No matter how much I pretend to be, no matter how much others like to think I am. I am not. I _see_. I see you lying. You lie to me all the time. But I do not ask because it is not my place to take the truth from you, not now, perhaps not ever. The Iron Bull lies also, but not to me. He hasn’t yet lied to me. Avoided or cushioned the truth with words and humor? Yes. Gently steered me from a topic he doesn’t want to talk about? Yes. Lied to me – withheld from me the truth with soft words and promises and bait for knowledge that ought to have been mine from the beginning? My birthrights? No. Never.”

Her eyes are dark slits.

“In Haven I gave you the name of hahren,” Her voice is deep and echoes with old, old magic, and Solas mentally curses his lack of foresight. “I gave you power over me, and submit myself to your will. But it is a two way street. You are bound to me as I am bound to you. You accepted my supplication. You are _bound_ to teach, to protect, to guide – or have you forgotten the ancient ways with which you teach me? I do not press you when you lie out of courtesy and respect and trust. I trust you not to be hiding something that will hurt me. I trust you not to be leading me into dark teeth.”

Solas closes his eyes and breathes.

“Yes.”

“So trust me, as well, _hahren_.” She says, “As you said, the Iron Bull is a small part of a complex machine.  And just who, hahren, do you think is the larger piece of the Inquisition’s machine? I give you so much, but I have and will never give you everything.”

-

“I trust people with my life all the time.” Lavellan says, “I trust you with my life. And I have since the first time we left  Haven’s gates together.”

He told her to go. He had practically yelled it at her. He doesn’t – he doesn’t want to be seen like this.

“And I like to think you trusted me with yours.” She says and he can see a glimpse of her, just past the cell bars. She’s not in direct sight, hiding off just to the side.

Perhaps she can’t stand to look at him. He wouldn’t blame her.

Most of the Inquisition guards they’ve put in place can’t look at him either.

“But, you know, Blackwall. It’s a easy thing, to trust a person with your life. If you’re used to battle, that is. I’ve been trusting people with my life since I was little. To protect me from shems and templars.” She says, and he hears the soft scuff of her boot on the stone. “It’s not that different, here. I trust you all to have my back, to do what’s right. And in the end, you did the right thing.”

Blackwall puts his face in his hands.

He is so ashamed.

“Trusting someone with your life doesn’t mean trusting someone with your secrets.” Lavellan’s voice drips lower and quieter. “There is no one here I give all my secrets to. Sometimes I give Cole a lot of them, but he knows I can’t give them all to him. Solas _thinks_ I give him all my secrets. I let him think that because – I think it makes him feel better. Bull knows I have secrets but he doesn’t want them. I give them to him sometimes, because he doesn’t want them. The others like to think I don’t have any. It makes me feel safe to them. I trust them with my life, but not with my secrets.”

He hears the soft sound of wood on stone, and looks up and he sees a small figure. A wooden halla, clumsily carved. The figures are rough and crude, made by an amateur’s hands.

“I still trust you with my life.” Lavellan says, “And perhaps, a few of my secrets. The first one is, I should know how to carve better but I don’t because Mahanon was always the one with the good knife and I never thought I’d be without him to do it for me.”

“Who’s Mahanon?” Blackwall asks without thinking and Lavellan laughs.

“That, Blackwall, is a secret you’ll have to work a little harder for.”


	156. Chapter 156

"Ever consider how I would rather set myself on fire than do this?" Dorian asks and Solas and Vivienne shoot him annoyed and dirty looks as Lavellan sets up the spell.  
  
"Have you considered the fact that he would smell absolutely dreadful if he did set himself on fire? And we are in such a _small_ room, it would take ages for the smell to diffuse." Vivienne says and Solas continues to give the rest of them the silent treatment.  
  
"Did any of you ever consider the fact that you're representing mages of all walks of life and you ought to get along to provide a good example?" Lavellan says, looking to Solas and gesturing to her chalk markings. Solas sighs and bends down to help her finish.  
  
"Well she has a point." Solas concedes, "Though I'm sure someone here will think of something to refute it."  
  
"She _had_ to pull the be a good example card, didn't she?" Dorian mutters. "Out of all the mages in Skyhold you had to pick us three, did you?"  
  
"You're my best three." Lavellan replies.  
  
"Which means she has me and she had to find something to do with you two so you could get some air." Dorian supplies. Vivienne raises an eyebrow.  
  
"How charming, the Tevinter roach thinks he's useful when he does party tricks."  
  
Solas appears to be attempting to lecture Lavellan with nothing but his eyebrows. Lavellan is, for the most part, ignoring this as well as she ignores everything else that tries to subdue her go-getter attitude. That is to say, she has yet to _notice_ it.  
  
"I like it when we all do things _together_." Lavellan continues as Dorian and Vivienne continue their back and forth. "It feels nice. I like it when all do things together, I like it when the people I _care for_ do things with me. It all feels very pleasant."  
  
" _Da'len_." Solas says, because she's laying it on thick and it's really highly unnecessary and unfair of her.  
  
"I mean, it makes me think of _home_." Lavellan continues, voice growing louder. "Me and the second and third playing and practicing with our magic. The Keeper giving us homework. Us experimenting with spells. Trying out new things, working together on refining old magic. You know when I went to the Conclave I promised them I'd find at least one new spell to bring back. I suppose I can't do that now. Seeing as how they're all _dead_."  
  
Dorian winces and Vivienne has the grace to look sorrowful at the mention of it. Solas sighs because - well.  
  
"Incredibly unfair of you." Dorian says.  
  
There was a time when she wouldn't be able to speak of her clan and their passing like this.  
  
Lavellan just wipes the chalk off her hands on her trousers and hums at them.  
  
"Well." Vivienne says as the other two mages get to their assigned positions. "One for all and all for one then, I suppose."  
  
-  
  
"He's not that bad, Boss." Bull says as Lavellan glares around him at the elf who's made himself at home in her tavern in her fortress. Lavellan's little nails dig into his skin before she goes back to hiding behind him. The other elf probably knows she's glaring death at him. He's a Crow, if he _didn't_ it'd be a little pathetic.  
  
"That's because you can keep up with him. You speak the same language." Lavellan says, pressed tight against his back as she plots revenge or whatever. "And you're both for hire."  
  
"True, but I'm _yours_ for hire." Bull points out, he doesn't know if he'll ever not think of her as his little saarebas boss. It'll be hard finding work after the Inquisition, he doesn't really wanna leave.  
  
He feels her mouth quickly peck a kiss to his skin.  
  
"And you're _mine_ for hire. Or _something_." Lavellan returns, easy and casual like it's the simplest thing in the world to love and be loved by a Tal-Vashoth Qunari merc with one eye.  
  
He went Tal-Vashoth for her. He left for her (for them, for him, for all of _this_ ).  
  
"Fight him for me." Lavellan says.  
  
"Gonna need a raise for that."  
  
"Josephine can arrange it."  
  
"Josephine probably _won't_." Bull says, "He's Antivan. She finally has someone to stick with her against Dorian and Vivienne."  
  
"Her loyalty is to the _Inquisition_."  
  
"That's got nothing to do with this."  
  
"My _honor_!"  
  
Bull turns his head a bit and he might not be able to see her but she knows the look he's giving her. Lavellan sighs.  
  
"It was a good trick." Bull says. "And everyone apologized. Normally you'd have let it go at this point."  
  
"I take marriage very _seriously_ , the Iron Bull." Lavellan says.  
  
"I think you're more upset you didn't catch him lying to your face."  
  
"Am _not_."  
  
"Definitely are too."  
  
Lavellan pinches his side and he hears her climbing out the window. Probably to complain to Blackwall or someone who won't point out all the flaws in her arguments.  
  
-  
  
"Look, Rainier or Blackwall or whatever." Bull says, looking down and straight at the guy, and he looks shamed. He looks angry and sad and hurting. Remorseful. Which is good, _fine_.  
  
Personally, Bull doesn't give a shit about what he's done. _Everyone_ lies.  
  
(Even Lavellan, when she squeezes one of his fingers with all five of her own and tells him, "I'm alright, the Iron Bull. I'm _alright_." as they leave Val Royeaux and there's something shining and brittle in her eyes. Dawnstone and obsidian.)  
  
Bull can take being betrayed. He's built for it.  
  
"You're back. For good." Bull says and the guy has been keeping himself holed up in the stables like it's where he belongs and maybe he's right. Bull doesn't know, that's not his call.  
  
As far as he figures, the Boss has already made her decision - "He is my friend. I trust him." - and he won't try to change her mind about it.  
  
"You fight well. You've got something in you that makes her forgive you. The way I figure it, there's nothing between you and me. We're square. No good, no bad. New start. I respect that you gave it all up. I know something about that. So not exactly square. A little respect on my side."  
  
Bull lets his teeth show.  
  
"But this is where that respect goes down the shithole pretty damn _fast_. The things you said? In that cell in Val Royeaux? The things you said to her in Skyhold's cells? In front of all those courtiers, in front of her on her throne?" Bull lets something Hissrad, something the Iron Bull, something he doesn't have a name for yet slip over him. Lets an arm of it loose through the stone. Still being crafted, but that much free. Shaped. "That shit won't fly. It hurt her. _Bad_. You _knew_ it would. You know how hard she works to make herself into something that fits that seat. You know how much it hurts her to be there, to see you like that. And you used that against her anyway. That? That I _don't_ respect. _That_? You do that _again_? They won't fucking find you, Blackwall. Because I'll be going for you _first_."


	157. Chapter 157

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser semi-spoilers in the first section.

He runs his hand through her hair, soft and fine, her head is small in his palm. Her legs dangle and kick over the edge of the balcony. Dorian and little else to keep her from tipping over, blowing away and disappearing somewhere. To wherever she was before them, wherever she will be after them. Dead or alive. Something unknowable.  
  
Dorian leans his forehead on her shoulder, kisses her neck, feels her shrug in response, and another time, another life, another era from this she would laugh and tell him his mustache tickles and stop, she'll fall. In this one, she is silent and the air around the arm that would push him away is still and empty. Her mana is so quiet. Not her _normal_ quiet.  
  
It's the sort of quiet that breeds _concerns_.

("I am  _concerned."_ He announces, somewhere and some when far from here to a tavern full of people bathed in warm light.)  
  
"Would you mind not sitting at a ledge when we're all worried about you? For my inner calm?"  
  
Memories like silt that slip through fingers and dissolve.  
  
Lavellan turns, and rests her head on his chest. "For _your_ inner calm, then."  
  
This is where he would ask her how she's feeling. How she'd holding up. Is she in any pain? Does she need something for the arm? Does she want new bandages?  
  
This is where he would ask her that if he couldn't read it all in her face and the way she just folds against him and lies there like a tired and worn out rag.  
  
Dorian rests his hand on the back of her neck. He's seen her go off to look into the face of certain death and come back alive too many times _not_ to believe in her.  
  
So he believes that she will recover from this. He believes that she will, _eventually_ , pick herself up and do something. Move on. To _what_ , though, he is not sure.  
  
"Dorian." She says, hand on his hip. "I love you."  
  
"Yes." Dorian says. And she loved _Solas_ , too. He _knows_. He knows without her saying, what she needs him to say. "You can write me. I'll be writing you all the time. It will be a never ending stream of birds and parcels, sent hours after each other. There's no one else who can keep up with me quite like you can, you know. I might just get so fed up with it all I mail myself back. How _large_ of a bird do you think that would necessitate?"  
  
Her fingers tighten and her exhale is something like a laugh.  
  
"I'd say _come visit_ , but really, I think you'd give half the Magisterium a heart attack if you showed up. No wait, _do_ that. I could replace the half that dies with people who have actual _brains_. Functional ones that aren't soaked in alcohol and incest."  
  
Lavellan's forehead pushes against her shoulder as she shakes her head, coming alive with laughter.  
  
"It's not goodbye." Dorian says. "Because I'll start writing the second I'm out of view. It would be like I never left, I won't give you the _chance_ to miss me. You might actually get _more_ of me than when I'm in your presence. I'll have a bust or portrait commissioned so you can look at it while you read my letters. I trust you to get the intonation right. And who _wouldn't_ like a portrait of me? These full lips? This perfect and classic nose? The wonderful sheen of my hair at the beginning of dusk coming in from my left? _Marvelous_."  
  
"I _love_ you." She laughs, raising her face to meet his and this is her, this is his best friend and he smiles back at her as she blooms back into something he recognizes, mana sparking alive and quiet and still in a glowing good way again. She laughs and she springs to her feet, sliding past and around him, fingers trailing sparks of lightning as he flicks sparks of fire at her. "You're the best, did you _know_ that Dorian?"  
  
"Of course I do." Dorian replies, taking her hand as they walk back inside, "I just like making sure you don't forget to tell me."  
  
-  
  
"And _now_ what are we doing?"  
  
"Looking for a white wyvern." Lavellan says, knee-deep in murky water as she scrubs gurgut guts off of Cole's face with her spit and a ripped up piece of uniform she had gotten off of a dead corpse they found a ways back.  
  
"What for?"  
  
Lavellan shrugs and Dorian throws his hands in the air. "What have I said about asking _why_?"  
  
"I should do it more?"  
  
"Yes! Who is this for?"  
  
"Vivienne."  
  
Dorian and Bull exchange looks.  
  
"She's going to _kill_ me." Dorian says. "This is it. The woman is going to poison me."  
  
Lavellan snorts. "Don't be ridiculous, Dorian, she's been looking for one since before the Inquisition. It's for something _else_."  
  
"You don't _know_ that, you didn't ask her why you needed it." Dorian replies. "And leave it, Cole is fine. We're running around a giant muddy and possibly diseased puddle, he'll just get dirty again later."  
  
Cole shoots Dorian a grateful look when Lavellan sighs and stops attempting to scrub his face clean.  
  
"She won't poison you with it." Lavellan declares. "I don't know what she needs it for, but it's not for t _h_ at."  
  
"Aren't you concerned at all by this?" Dorian asks Bull.  
  
"A little, yeah. But I haven't given her a reason to poison me lately." Bull says. "And wyverns are like small dragons. I don't mind hunting them until we find a white one."  
  
Dorian rolls his eyes and turns back to Lavellan, points at her -  
  
"The next time someone asks you to do something, you ask them _why_ and you don't accept until they tell you."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Bull snorts and Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Dorian is imagining setting you on fire, starting with your hair." Cole says. "I don't think it should be making him that happy. Your hair didn't do anything _wrong_."  
  
Lavellan looks slightly offended.  
  
"It's like you do this to me on purpose." Dorian declares. "This, in and of itself, is Vivienne poisoning me. I know it. I just _know_ it."  
  
"You're being silly, Dorian." Lavellan says. "Also I think I hear another wyvern coming. Let's hope this one is white."


	158. Chapter 158

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I have now realized that in one of the earlier chapters, I mention that Lavellan went into the Fade with Sera and Dorian, leaving the Iron Bull behind. Let's all pretend that didn't happen and stick with this party lol.

"You should have," Vivienne says, stern and worried and angry and mind spinning in a thousand directions like the rest of theirs, "Brought one of us. I'm not sure about your _hahren_ , but at least the Tevinter and I know how much of a threat demons _truly_ pose. We would have been of use."  
  
Lavellan has been quiet, she's been quiet since she came out of the rift and talked to Varric, and it's been incredibly hard to catch her, let alone see her, for someone who is so incredibly visible. So incredibly - well.  _Her_.  
  
Lavellan's face is buried in her arms as she sits against the wheel of a wagon, and it's been hard work getting her here. Between the three of them.  
  
Vivienne, Dorian, Solas. She didn't bring any of them into Adamant and that means they all saw her _fall_ and Dorian - Dorian had this moment, that he knows was echoed in Solas's face because they were together knocking demons off ramparts with spells and he saw it (Vivienne was somewhere else, so he is not sure what she felt, but he knows that there must be some concern, one does not spend months working alongside and training someone like Lavellan without growing at least a little bit attached, or invested) happen. This moment of _no, not her, not again, no,_ a moment of clear and uncontrollable heartbreak and mind-blanking terror because they cannot lose her. It isn't her hand or her title or anything, it's just _her_. Dorian can't lose his best friend. Solas can't lose his da'len.  
  
Lavellan has taken active pains to avoid all three of them - even more so than she's been avoiding everyone else. Highly unlike her, too.  
  
She may come at her problems from the side or other unexpected angles, but she never _avoids_ them.  
  
"We would have helped." Dorian says, and Solas stands there, quiet and looking at her and Dorian knows that Lavellan can read something in the weight of his eyes that no one else can, and it's just something _them_ , just like how Lavellan can take Cole's hand and Cole will instantly fall quiet and peaceful and the way Lavellan will sometimes just look at Blackwall and the man will go off to fetch her something with a dip of the head and a murmured "as my lady commands".  
  
Solas remains quiet but he's certain that he's going to be tearing a strip out of her later when no one else is around to hear.  
  
"We know the Fade better than they do." Vivienne says, "We are the ones who venture into it every night. _We_ are the ones who study it, master it, fight against its pull with every breath. We know demons. We know the Fade. We know magic, and at least one of us knows blood magic."  
  
Dorian doesn't protest because while he doesn't use it, he knows it. A second and third and fourth language that no one speaks in polite company.  
  
Lavellan looks up, and she stands and walks over to Vivienne until the tips of her boots are almost touching Vivienne's - another thing, she's still wearing her armored boots. Strange. She would have delighted in kicking them off and leaving them in the wastes. And then she does something unthinkable.  
  
She reaches up and grasps Vivienne's face between them, framing Vivienne's dark skin with the glow of her anchor and she says in this terrible voice -  
  
This yawning, gaping, groaning, grasping, echoing, _dying_ chasm of a voice.  
  
"No."  
  
They are all still. It is quiet, like Lavellan's single word has denied sound and time the right of existence, told the world to stop. She has that sort of magnetism around her, and Dorian doesn't know if she controls it or if it controls her, but it is the sort of thing that perhaps would make the world see her as something more of a Dalish paraiah, monster, then as the air-and-sunlight girl with the liquid eyes of a doe.  
  
"I did not bring you _because_ you _know_." She says. "You know demons. Demons know you. It goes both ways. I would not throw you into that den of them. And. If I had known that I would enter the Fade once more, if I had known that what would come to pass was what would come to happen, I would not have brought any of you. Not Cole, not Cassandra, not the Iron Bull. And _never_ , I would never bring the three of _you_. I would cut your legs and leave you in the sands, I would never have brought you to that fortress."  
  
Echoing and deep and vast, her voice is the thing that inflates their lungs as she speaks and illuminates the night and casts the shadows on their faces, staring into Vivienne's face.  
  
"No. You do not _know_. You will never _know_. You must never know. You do not deserve what happened there. _No one_ does. Do not tell me you wish to have been and _seen_ it. I have _lived_ the nightmare. I have stared into it and heard its voice. You have not. And I will not tell you of it. I will tell no one of it. I will take it to my grave and it will be trapped within my bones and the dust of them, the tree of my flesh with keep it trapped in me forever. No, Vivienne. No, Dorian. No, Solas. I was right to not bring any of you. I have never been more right in my entire life."  
  
-  
  
"I would feel much better if she weren't climbing the fortress walls like a large and skinny spider." Cullen says and Varric shrugs.  
  
"Well, you win some, you lose some."  
  
"What did I _win_?"  
  
"She's climbing the insides the fortress walls instead of the _outsides_ of them." Varric says, "And would you look at that? She's even got a coat on. You shouldn't push your luck so much, Curly. I mean, what would life be like if she weren't climbing walls? It's part of what makes her _her_."  
  
"For one thing life would be safer." Cullen deadpans, "For another, it would make me feel less like I'm about to start climbing walls from lack of sanity. I refuse to count this as a win."  
  
"Well how are you going to get her down? Climb up after her?"  
  
The dwarf has a point.  
  
Cullen, unlike their Inquisitor, has little to no - _none_ \- practice scaling vertical fortress walls with nothing but his bare hands and - well, for her, feet.  
  
He wonders if this is a Dalish thing, a clan Lavellan thing, or just a her thing.  
  
"Do you think I could ask Solas?"  
  
"I don't know if vertical wall climbing is part of Chuckle's wide and varied array of talents, but you could ask. He'd probably say _no_ , and then give you that _look_ , but you'd have tried. Which is something."  
  
"Cole?"  
  
"If you can find him."  
  
"He has a knack for showing up just when I'm thinking of him, and then giving me a strong shock that makes my heart do very unpleasant things."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Cullen feels his chest seize and Varric jumps, hand going for where Bianca should be, before sighing and they both turn around and Cole is fidgeting and picking at his fingers.  
  
" _Cole_." Cullen sighs, because there's little point in even being mad at him about it.  
  
"Yes."  
  
He points. "Could you?"  
  
Cole tilts his head, which doesn't really do much because all Cullen can see of his face is hat and more hat.  
  
"I don't know. I haven't tried climbing walls like that." Cole says. "The stones try to hold on but they aren't good at it because they're all packed in so tight. They're sorry to let people fall sometimes but they can't help it. I can _try_. Would that make you feel better?"  
  
"Yes." Cullen says. "It would make a lot of Skyhold feel better."  
  
"Skyhold already feels better." Cole says, walking towards the wall. Though Cullen isn't sure what the boy does can be described as walking. It's more like he just - appears places. Like a flip-book, the kind some of the other boys used to make during lessons when they weren't paying attention. Cullen has little artistic talent and mostly settled for writing snippets he remembered from books in the margins of his notes. "Skyhold has something to hold."


	159. Chapter 159

"You've grown soft on the demon." Cassandra says and Cullen pulls back fast enough to avoid losing his nose and sometimes he wishes that Cassandra would just let them use _training_ swords instead of slightly dulled swords that have yet to be sharpened. Granted that the wooden training swords are just as lethal in her hands as anything else is, but it would make him feel a little better.  
  
"And you haven't?" Cullen returns and Cassandra sputters, and he's not above using that opening to his advantage when he tries to kick at her ankle. She stumbles backwards, still manages to parry, and regains her stance. He can only hope that he gets that good someday. He supposes, though, that when one is running around with the Inquisitor fighting dragons and such that if you don't get that good and stay that way you could quickly wind up dead.  
  
Cullen raises an eyebrow as she sputters out clipped protests.  
  
"I know you read to him." Cullen continues, "I read to him too. He likes your voices better than mine."  
  
Granted, Cullen tends to just read scout and supply reports out loud to him. Though Cole seems to find them just as interesting and has his own...unique brand of commentary for them.  
  
Cassandra's cheeks are red with embarrassment - she never gets red when they fight, he isn't even sure she's ever gotten out of breath when they've sparred, let alone _flushed_.  
  
"Lies."  
  
Cullen raises the other brow to join the first and Cassandra bares her teeth at him. Cullen knocks his blade against his shield and shrugs.  
  
"As you say." Cullen concedes, then falls to silence when Cassandra lunges at him because it's really foolish to think you can keep up with banter while fighting against Cassandra Pentaghast.  
  
Cullen loses some time during the spar, but she calls time after he manages to get in a good hit with the flat of his blade to her left thigh and they part for a breath. Cullen lowers the shield and sword and stretches, Cassandra puts hers down as well and experimentally moves her leg.  
  
Cullen looks at her leg and tilts his head, she shrugs at him before shaking her own. Cullen hums. Cassandra sighs.  
  
"It was _one_ story and it was only because he would not leave me alone."  
  
Cullen, and Cassandra from the way she darts a look around, half expects Cole to pop up as he is wont to do and make a comment. He doesn't. He's either busy with the Inquisitor or doing something else, then. Or maybe he's already there and they just can't see him.  
  
"Of course." Cullen says because he didn't live this long without learning when to leave things be. But also, because when you spend enough time with someone with Surana or Hawke or Varric, you also learn to be something of a _shit_ about things. "Reading to him in your bedchambers, though, Cassandra, seems something of a scandal. Perhaps you ought to reserve a private room for the future."  
  
Cullen ducks when Cassandra aims a punch at his nose and holds his hands up in surrender. She makes a sound of disgust.  
  
"You were better before I got to know you." She declares, the tips of her ears bright red. "Or at least, before _Varric_ got to you."  
  
-  
"You could _die_." Dorian says.  
  
Varric snorts. "No, _could die_ is for baiting high dragons. You mean, she _will_ die. Which is the appropriate response to someone _drugging_ Cassandra Pentaghast."  
  
"Drugged is such a strong, _strong_ word." Lavellan says, and somehow she's completely calm about all of this. "Leliana helped me put Cassandra to sleep for some much needed _rest_. With Josephine's assistance, as well."  
  
"The women of this castle are terrifying, have you noticed that?" Bull asks Krem who just continues to boggle at the Inquisitor.  
  
"Ten says she's going to blame it on Varric." Sera says and Blackwall contemplates before shaking his head.  
  
"Sucker's bet, she blames _everything_ on Varric."  
  
"You don't know that, she might blame it on me. Or the demon." Sera points out.  
  
"Ten on Cole." Skinner says. "But an extra five she'll go after Varric when she can't find him."  
  
"On." Sera says and the two shake on it.  
  
"She's going to _die_." Dorian says, turning to Bull, who looks straight at Dorian and says -  
  
"Not a chance."  
  
Dorian makes a noise of disgust mixed with dread. "You're supposed to be her front line _bodyguard_ , whatever that means."  
  
"Sometimes you've gotta learn from the consequences of your actions." Bull says, "This is one of those times."  
  
"Even _he_ doesn't want to fight the Seeker for real." Varric says, "And this guy actively runs after dragons with hard ons."  
  
Bull bares his teeth in a grin.  
  
Lavellan ignores them all in favor of beaming and waving at a rapidly approaching figure in the distance.  
  
"Here she is." Lavellan says as everyone else attempts to scramble away. Lavellan grabs Dorian, Dorian grabs Sera, Sera grabs Varric, shoving him in front of her as a shield with one hand and Bull in the other, Bull swoops one arm out and gathers half the Chargers to him, and Blackwall just plants his feet and looks like he's about to get hit by a herd of druffalo.  
  
"You!" Cassandra's voice bellows out and she's dragging Cullen behind her, and the man looks like he's either been smacked repeatedly against a wall or like he's just seen something incredibly terrible and awe inspiring. Like the Divine naked or the King of Ferelden doing a handstand or the Champion of Kirkwall holding a tea party.  
  
Lavellan continues to wave, like a cow that doesn't know it's about to get killed and _eaten_.  
  
"Where is Cole?" Cassandra yells, "I know he did this."  
  
Sera swears and Skinner smirks.  
  
"Ten royals."  
  
Skinner holds up a finger.  
  
" _Varric_! You put him up to this!"  
  
Sera swears again and turns to Dorian. "Hey, Tevinter, spot me some?"  
  
Dorian raises an eyebrow, "Don't make bets with money you don't have."  
  
"I'll give you the money." Lavellan says, and reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small bag of coins, "I don't have anything else to do with it anyway."  
  
"Anyone mind letting me go?" Varric says, "She's getting pretty close and that's a sword she has in the other hand, you know, the hand that isn't dragging Curly around like a pretty accessory?"  
  
"I'll let you go if Dorian lets me go."  
  
"I'll let Sera go if the _Inquisitor_ lets me go."  
  
"But I _like_ holding your hand, Dorian."  
  
"Not _now_ , Lavellan. Fasta vass, woman, have a sense of timing!" Dorian half-heartedly attempts to wrench his hand from her grasp but gives up and squeezes anyway, because Cassandra Pentaghast is upon them and this might be the last thing he ever does.


	160. Chapter 160

When she sleeps she looks like something wild and restless. Blackwall doesn’t know if that’s a _her_ thing. It’s not an elf thing, Sera and Solas don’t look like this in sleep. Sera looks like a well loved rag-doll and Solas looks like he’s a relief carved out of soft and smooth edged stones. Lavellan looks like a wild thing – something wolf, something doe, something bear, something raven, something falcon, something woman.

It might be a Dalish thing, but he’s fairly sure it isn’t.

Awake she is restless, she sways in invisible winds standing still and she turns and twists like something sinuous and hunting. Always moving. And when she goes still it’s like something else in her makes up for her stillness, making her eyes mouths or fire, pulling the world into motion, into _her_. She is a jumping, exclaiming, climbing, dancing, skipping, skidding, sliding, slithering thing of mysteries and Blackwall isn’t one for poetry but there is no other words to describe her. Even when she falls it looks like something a minstrel or bard would pen. Clumsy but accidentally falling into grace, anyway.

In sleep she carries it with her, it is not her who moves – if she is not moving then the world _must_ be moving for her. In sleep she curls up, like a dog, like a doe, like a bear, tucks herself into her own body, knots of limbs and impossible bends of bone and skin, snakes and lizards. And her eyes close and her face shifts into something strange and a little unrecognizable, peaceful like looking at ancient ruins. You can only puzzle the pieces together.

Her fingers twitch, you can track the soft sweeps of her eyes underneath her thin lids, and trace the clench and unclench of her spine, her muscles. He often thinks it must hurt to sleep like that, but after waking she unfurls like a flower, limbs spinning outwards like so many petals and wings and she flows and jumps up and her face burst-blooms into something vivacious and terrifyingly alive and _alert_ for someone with eyes like that.

Sometimes people say that she has the eyes of a doe. Some grazing animal, all dark and sleepy and soft lined and framed and trusting. And that is one word for it, yes.

Blackwall, privately, thinks _raven_ or _falcon_ or _owl_. Watching, waiting, unreadable. Unknowable.

There are secrets in her, secrets of life and the world, tucked into those eyes watching you. Sometimes he thinks she sees something that no one else does, that maybe, just maybe she knows everything that they never thought to ask. Sometimes, Blackwall considers asking but he isn’t sure if he’d be able to handle the answer.

But when she sleeps she’s somehow contained, comparable, safer. No secrets watching you, no threat of answers. Just this vortex of a girl, wolf and doe and bear and wild things.

Blackwall sighs and throws a horse blanket over her, watches as her face moves towards him for a moment, slender fingers momentarily unlocking from each other to curl around the blanket’s worn edges. Then she burrows back into herself, into her impossible tangle of self, and returns to sleep.

Safe.

-

Spiders, Lavellan thinks, they see spiders.

She tries to imagine a self, a face, that fears spiders. Truly fears them. Lavellan has feared many things in her life, but she is sorry to say that spiders are not one of those things. Not even when she was bit by a poisonous one when she was small and the Keeper and Mahanon and everyone else yelled themselves hoarse scolding her afterwards. She had a large lump on her ankle, purple and vivid like berry juice, and Mahanon had looked sick. She wasn’t afraid of them before or after that, though she finds the touch of their legs somewhat disturbing.

It isn’t the spider’s fault. The spider doesn’t know her.

Lavellan has been a spider before.

She has many faces, many shapes.

But no, she does not fear spiders and if there was any face of hers that did, she has long lost it.

She wishes she did, in this moment, because spiders are preferable to this.

The horrors that come for her wear her own face.

A thousand selves.

And she knows them, looking, instantly, who they are.

There – this one that she sets on fire, is herself. Shackled and chained, belly heavy and full with child she knows instantly is shem. And there, the one Cassandra cuts down is herself, dead-eyed and beaten, blood between her lips and legs and fingernails. The one that Cole strikes from behind is her, also. Face unmarked but hard and angry.

The selves that Hawke and Stroud cut and tear through are the selves like skeletons.

The selves that the Iron Bull plows through are bitter, sharp-toothed things.

Coming, faster and faster, she sees one. And she knows each face.

In the distance, she sees – a self. A self with wild eyes, a self with scratches all over, from her own hands, a self that screams and howls and sobs and snarls like a feral and foaming thing. A self that, she knows, has lost her soul. _Mahanon,_ Lavellan thinks with white lightning terror scarring its way up and down her throat and spine and skull, _Mahanon, Mahanon, Mahanon. Never you, never you, take me with you, I should die at your side. I should never have left, Mahanon, Mahanon, Mahanon._

That one, that one, she cannot bear to see come closer.

Lavellan steps with ice in her veins in the air behind, barely missing clipping Bull and Stroud as she passes – the sound of ice freezing and shattering echoing like thunder and her heart in her wake -

She seizes the horror of herself by the face and loves her because this is my fate this is me, I love you Mahanon, how do I live without the other half of my soul in this world? I cannot, I cannot do it, I do not know how I can do it -

And with lightning and fire in her hands she snaps her own neck and she thinks that there’s something like joy in the nightmare’s face before it disappears and she knows it is not her own blood on her hands but ichor and demon’s flesh but it feels like her-him-them and she wants to sob.

There is no room for Mahanon in the Inquisition.

The fight is not over, but for a moment, she feels breath on the back of her neck, a pair of lips that press a kiss – soft and unsure, loving and tender, kind and compassionate, understanding and hurting, a touch to her heart to bring her home to them – to the sliver of skin between her tunic’s collar and her hair, cool and swift. Lavellan breathes and wishes for spiders and turns to destroy the thousands of faces that are not hers to wear.

-


	161. Chapter 161

Not right, it isn't right - too _much_ , pain, so much suffering - end it, end it, make it stop. He can't, he just _can't_.  
  
It isn't right, it doesn't feel right - so many deaths, so much, blood, demons. The Fade. Home that isn't. Never is, never isn't. He isn't right. Trapped, so many chains keeping him from _purpose_.  
  
A voice in the darkness that should be light but isn't, pain there, too.  
  
Heal the hurt, fix the problem, stop the pain but he _can't_ because when he touches her pain it is _him_. He is her pain and he should leave to fix that but he can't do that either because she won't forget, why can't he make her _forget_ -  
  
"Cole." She says and Cole is aware of so many things at once, her face, his face, his hands, her hands, all the pain contained in a single name, Cole, Cole, _Cole_.  
  
She catches him but he has already been caught, can't escape, can't go, not the Fade, not here, no, no, no, no, _no_ -  
  
She catches him and calls him down, curls her body over and around his, hat gone, the world opens as she brushes hair and cobwebs and dark world shadows from his eyes and leans over him. She curls and his head is cradled between her legs and her soft, soft stomach, the smell of clean earth and rain, not home, not strange, familiar, her face in his face, her face becomes the world that he sees and there is pain there -  
  
Cole reaches to touch the Passion of - _stars_ , infinite in their blackness and there is pain.  
  
"Forget." He whispers swimming in her and pain and world and not right and she smiles, something sad, something dripping stars, and her fingers run through his hair.  
  
"I will _never_ forget you, Cole." She says, " _Lethallin_."  
  
Cole fidgets, tries to escape, to move, it's too much but he can't escape, can't leave, and she runs her hand through his hair, her face in his face and she sing-hums something in words like songs but not _her_ songs, not the songs inside of her that echo and ache and Cole doesn't know how to fix that, he's frightened and she's frightened and he frightens _her_ and he doesn't mean to, he's _sorry_ -  
  
"Ir'abelas, ma'falon." She sings, regret and love and all the things woven together by sisters and mothers and lovers, "Ir'abelas. Mala suledin nadas na abelas, ma'falon. Vir'elgar har'vir tel na nuvin, ir'nuvin."  
  
"You didn't know." Cole says because she asked and he said yes and she did not know what she was asking and if she did know she would never ask. She told them so, if she had known she would have never asked, but she did not know so it is not her fault.  
  
"I hurt you. I have wronged you." She says, "Cole, Cole. Rest, now, Cole. I am sorry. I will make it up to you, I promise. Cole."  
  
She says his name like many raining gifts and she says his name like many heavy tears and he stills for her and lets her run her hands through his hair and he is flying apart inside but she catches the parts and holds them so he does not lose them even though they are scattered.  
  
Cole breathes in so much rain and so much earth and he catches one of her star-hands in his and squeezes like he has seen Dorian do for her.  
  
I am also sorry, he thinks.  
  
"The faces weren't you." Cole says and Lavellan smiles. Stars.  
  
-  
  
Lavellan is going to break Sera's hand, Sera thinks as she squeezes Lavellan's hand back.  
  
The sky is gray and blegh, and the floor is gray and blegh, and the buildings are gray and blegh, and Sera's _insides_ feel gray and _blegh_.  
  
Lavellan looks at her like Sera's supposed to have the answers here, but what the fuck does Sera know, apparently not _Blackwall_.  
  
Not Blackwall.  
  
Lavellan looks a little lost, and Sera doesn't know how to fix that, doesn't know why Lavellan is looking at her like she can somehow change any of this and Sera. Sera _feels_.  
  
She feels and it's not necessary the good kind.  
  
Dorian lets out a loud gust of breath and all at once Lavellan isn't _Sera's_ Lavellan anymore, she's the Inquisitor and she lets go of Sera's hand. But when she let's go it's finger by finger, like Lavellan can't stand to let go, like maybe the only thing keeping her here was Sera, and Sera can't blame her.  
  
Sera looks away and Dorian steps up behind her, hand on her shoulder, and they exchange looks.  
  
Lavellan is staring at the gallows.  
  
Bull puts a hand on both of their shoulders and they look up at him and he shakes his head.  
  
"Send word to Cullen." Bull says to one of their escorts. "Now."  
  
Lavellan is walking towards the gallows, but it isn't her, it's the Lady Inquisitor and Sera sometimes has a hard time telling the two apart.  
  
" _This_." Dorian says voice low as he lets out a long breath, "This is going to end badly."  
  
"No _shit_." Sera mutters, stomach sour and churning.  
  
Bull is quiet and that's probably worse than if he said anything at all. If he could just open his stupid mouth and say something dumb like normal, then it would be okay but he doesn't and it's all not right.  
  
And it strikes Sera that out of an entire castle of spies at least _one_ of them should've caught something about Blackwall and maybe this is partially their fault and that would mean it's part _Sera's_ fault that Lavellan looked like that and maybe that's why Lavellan was looking at her that way.  
  
Sera's face feels hot and prickly. Like she rubbed rashvine over it or something.  
  
She turns and she thinks Dorian - smart, clever Tevinter scholar Dorian - and Bull - super secret Qunari spy - are thinking the same thing.  
  
Blackwall could've gone this entire time - until the end - without saying anything. They might have never caught him.  
  
Sera wants to yell and kick and poke and jab at something, maybe Blackwall, maybe herself, she doesn't know. He's their _friend_.  
  
Lavellan comes back after talking to the talking guy, the one in charge, and her face looks like it's been made out of glass or maybe it's one of those fancy orleisan masks itself, fake and wrong and not real -  
  
"Prison." She says, and her voice sounds faint and washed out. Like she's talking underneath an ocean or whispering in a storm or something. "He's - Blackwall. _Rainer_."  
  
The name sounds weird in her mouth, like she's tasting it.  
  
" _Rainer_ is in the prison." Lavellan says, head tilting in the direction of said prison. Then she goes quiet, and she stares at them.  
  
"What are you going to do, Boss?" Bull asks when no one says anything.  
  
Lavellan looks at him, and it's like she's asking with her eyes and Sera's so glad she isn't looking at her like that because Sera wouldn't know what to tell her, Sera wouldn't know how to breathe.  
  
"I'm going to see him." She says when no one answers her gaze, sounding like she got struck by lightning or a hammer to the head. "I need to talk to him. I need to _see_ him."


	162. Chapter 162

Here is a secret, a thing, that nobody knows. Tucked underneath faces and things, buried deep. Lavellan writes in shaking letters, _Mahanon_. She writes his name, _their_ name, over and over and over again until each letter is dry and perfect and _right_. Then she burns the paper.  
  
This is _her_ secret that nobody knows.  
  
No one here has Mahanon. No one but her.  
  
They take her magic, they take her name, they take her face, her voice, her heart, her blood. But never _this_. Not Mahanon.  
  
Little pieces that Cole nudges against, but Cole never takes, not really. Cole does not take, not the way everyone else does and so it is _safe_. I can trust you with Mahanon, Lavellan thinks as she feeds the fire with their name. I can trust you with Mahanon because you will let me keep him.  
  
Yes, Cole tells her in a dream where she has Mahanon's hand in hers, unscarred and unmarked, Keep him forever.  
  
Yes, she tells him, squeezing the dream's hand and wishing she could just pull him out into the world and be with him again even though it is probably safer for him back with the clan. Yes. Forever and a day.  
  
-  
  
"Absolutely not." Cullen says and finds himself summarily ignored as Leliana and Josephine actually consider this. "No. Is anyone even listening to me? What am I here _for_? Decoration? _No_."  
  
"Yes." The two say and Lavellan is focused on examining some sketches Rylen sent back detailing the progress of Griffon Wing Keep's restoration.  
  
"We are not barbarians, no matter what half the world likes to say." Cullen says. "We're a respectable and civilized military organization."  
  
He remains ignored. Cullen feels a headache beginning to form. It might be because of how hard he's grinding his teeth.  
  
The Inquisitor is absolutely no help in the matter as she is the one who declared the ruling in the first place, a twist of wit and annoyance that flashed over her face before words were spilling out of her mouth. Sharp and a little foreign in her mouth, in her voice - as if she were pretending to be Dorian or Sera.  
  
Cullen sighs.  
  
"If you don't like what Josephine and Leliana want to do with it, then why don't _you_ do something with it?" Lavellan asks and Cullen turns to stare at her because -  
  
"No. _No_." He turns to the other two women who look incredibly amused by this turn of events. "No. I think we've all learned what the word _no_ means. We're all educated enough to know that. No. I _cannot_ emphasize this enough. _No_."  
  
"Yes, commander. If you are so displeased with our ideas, what is yours?"  
  
"What is the suitable militaristic option here?" Lavellan muses. "I should ask Bull."  
  
"Head on a pike." Leliana and Josephine chime together. Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
"There will be _no heads on pikes_. I shouldn't even have to be saying this."  
  
Lavellan looks interested.  
  
" _No_." Cullen says, and it's a losing battle but he's not giving up without a fight. Or at least, the pretense of one. "I am not having someone carry around the former Duchess Florianne's head on a pike for you. These are all _terrible_ ideas."  
  
Lavellan slowly rolls up Rylen's sketches, returns them to their tube, places the tube down. Raises one of his markers and gently places it on the map next to where Josephine had tentatively pinned the area of display for the Duchess' remains.  
  
She smiles.  
  
Cullen groans.  
  
"You want her head on a pike."  
  
"Please." Lavellan says because manners are apparently more important here than actual dignity.  
  
"Think of it as punishment for slackers." Josephine says.  
  
"Are you sure this isn't just a punishment for _me_?"  
  
-  
  
"Why is it that everyone calls me the typical Fereldan?" Cullen asks, "Did you know someone pinned a note - How to Act Ferelden - to my tent this morning? I didn't notice until I saw the Herald reading it."  
  
" _Stanton_." Leliana says and Cullen grimaces, because of course she knows his middle name and of course she'd be willing to use it. "Rutherford."  
  
"It's an average name."  
  
"An average _dog lord_ name."  
  
"People keep saying that - dog lord - like it's an insult."  
  
"It's probably meant to be."  
  
"I don't understand how so."  
  
"Spoken like a true dog lord. Where is this note, by the way? I want to read it."  
  
Cullen frowns, "You'd have to ask Lavellan. She took it with her."  
  
Leliana smiles. "Maybe Josephine will have a copy."  
  
Cullen narrows his eyes at her. Leliana raises her hands.  
  
"I doubt she put it there, but I'm sure she has a copy of this notice. It's part of her job, no?"  
  
"Sometimes I think that the real reason why Cassandra called me here was so that I could entertain you." Cullen says, "So that she doesn't have to stay here."  
  
"There is that." Leliana admits. "You're also not half bad to look at. You make a wonderful face for the Inquisition. Especially now that your hair is finally under control."  
  
-  
  
"I dislike lying." Lavellan says.  
  
"And yet you remain well practiced at it." Solas points out.  
  
"A trick isn't the same as a lie." Lavellan says, "It's different. Nuances. I mean - The Dread Wolf didn't lie, he just tricked people."  
  
Solas makes a particular face and Lavellan wrinkles her nose.  
  
"You don't even believe in the Dalish Pantheon, don't be offended by the Dread Wolf."  
  
Solas continues to make the face and Lavellan makes the face back at him.  
  
" _Hahren_."  
  
"Da'len." Solas replies, automatic, before he blinks and shakes his head. "The Dread Wolf is hardly the best subject to have as your role model."  
  
"Says who?" Lavellan asks, "And who says he's my role model? I was just using him as an example. Tricks aren't lies."  
  
"They can be." Solas replies, "And you do not know that the Dread Wolf did not lie. Lies are parts of tricks."  
  
"Parts, but not _always_."  
  
"Lies of omission are still lies."  
  
" _Says who_?"  
  
Solas raises an eyebrow at her. Lavellan crosses her arms.  
  
"Still not a lie."  
  
"As you say. We shall put that discussion aside for later."  
  
"I dislike it when you say that." Lavellan lets her arms fall, "Because that means you are now making a lesson plan for it. And it will most likely involve extra studies."  
  
"Most likely, but not entirely true."  
  
Lavellan is quiet for a moment before she frowns and huffs, turning away. "If Fen'Harel had vallaslin and you were Dalish I'm sure that's who's markings you would get. You are frustrating, at times, hahren."  
  
Solas is quiet for a long time and Lavellan risks a glance at him, she had meant it in jest - but perhaps he really doesn't like the Dread Wolf after all -  
  
"I suppose you are correct." Solas says, and his hands are very still. Lavellan fidgets. "And if he had vallaslin, and if they continued to exist, and if he were not so reviled - they would suit you, as well."

Hahren sounds very sad, and very wistful, and very tired when he says that. Lavellan doesn't know why.  
  
"I would be honored." Lavellan eventually settles on saying, and watches when the words make Solas flinch. Small, almost imperceptible. But she is watching and she has spent a long time watching him, in specific. He flinches. Lavellan doesn't know why, that, either.  
  
So she says nothing.


	163. Chapter 163

She runs her hands through over his head, gentle and slightly sharp as she prods and nudges at the bases of his horns. He can't feel much there, but on the skin around he can. Bull hums as he adjusts the mirror for shaving, her sharp heels kicking off his chest and ribs as he leans forward to get a better view.  
  
Lavellan curls over his head, a shadow -  
  
"Bull?"  
  
Bull lowers the razor. "Yeah, Boss?"  
  
"Did these hurt?" She asks, idly tugging at a horn, and Bull readjusts the mirror again to compensate for her shadow.  
  
"A little. I don't remember." Bull replies and she hums. Bull shifts his weight on the floor, takes one of her ankles in his hand and squeezes. "Stop."  
  
Lavellan stops kicking and returns to her examination of his horns.  
  
"Bull?" She asks as he starts shaving, "Don't most Qunari have white hair?"  
  
"I'm vigorously youthful." Bull replies.  
  
Lavellan hums. Her fingers flutter over his scalp before returning to the bases of his horns, testing the hardened skin there. He can't feel anything but the slightest of pressure. A little more when she digs her nails in, testing.  
  
"Nice try." Bull says, "Towel."  
  
Lavellan hands him the towel that was next to her and touches the tips of his ears.  
  
"They're almost like mine." She says and Bull hums. "Why aren't Qunari also called knife-ear?"  
  
"Because there are other pointy things on us that aren't our ears." Bull answers, tilting the mirror. "Alright, quiet for a second, okay Boss? Got to do the throat. Messy stuff."  
  
Lavellan falls quiet and her hands are loose on his horns as she waits.  
  
Bull takes in the silence for a few minutes before humming. "Alright. You're good."  
  
Lavellan starts humming. "Bull?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Why do you shave?"  
  
"Because sometimes the ladies don't like it rough." Bull replies. And sometimes men, too.  
  
"Oh." Lavellan says, "Why doesn't Blackwall shave then?"  
  
Bull snorts, "I don't think ladies are much of a concern for him right now, Boss."  
  
"What about Cullen? It seems that there are a lot of ladies who like him, Bull. But he doesn't seem to shave that often, his face is always rough."  
  
Bull has to put the razor down before he cuts his face open laughing.  
  
Lavellan laughs too, probably only because he's laughing rather than her actually understanding _why_ he's laughing.  
  
"Do me a favor, Boss, you go and ask him that yourself. After this we'll go ask him together. And we'll bring Dorian and Krem along, too."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So they can help make sure he answers the question."  
  
"Why wouldn't he answer the question? He answers most of my questions. Cullen is very good at answering my questions."  
  
"Because sometimes he doesn't and I think they'd want to know the answer, too."  
  
"Alright. Bull?"  
  
"Yeah, Boss?"  
  
Lavellan's hand slide over his horns and slap against his cheeks, rubbing a little, catching bits of lather on the sides of her palms. She laughs.  
  
" _Smooth_."  
  
Bull reaches up and finds her head, patting it, laughing. "Yup. Smooth as an elf's ass."  
  
-  
  
"You and the Iron Bull don't get along." Lavellan says and Dorian turns to stare at her. She just looks at him like a small and trusting animal, one with that probably has a bushy tail or large ears or some sort and Dorian waves a hand, inadvertently trailing smoke behind him.  
  
"Oh, don't you even start with me." Dorian says, "You very well know _why_ I don't get along with that ox. My people are at war with his people."  
  
"Technically, _my_ people at war with _your_ people."  
  
"The elves aren't at war with anyone at the moment, let alone the Tevinter Imperium. I'm sorry to say it, but I think _that_ war is over and unfortunately we didn't lose."  
  
Lavellan raises an eyebrow. "I mean the Inquisition is at war with a Tevinter Magister leading an extremist sect of Tevinter nationalists."  
  
Dorian blinks, "Oh."  
  
Lavellan flops down onto his bed and rolls around in his sheets, curling them up around her like a cocoon. Her face pops out of one end like she's a demented caterpillar.  
  
Dorian sighs. "Do I need to explain centuries old grudges to you? I feel like I shouldn't have to."  
  
Lavellan rolls around some more until she's staring at him up side down.  
  
"You are about to make me explain centuries old grudges to you." Dorian concludes. "Well, it all starts with the fact that the Qunari are taking over the human race and forcing them into drudgery, robbing them of all free will and everything that makes people people - such as free will, personal choice, familial relationships, biblical relationships, and everything else that's fun and generally life giving."  
  
Lavellan hums.  
  
"And so my people, the Tevinters, have been fighting their people for as long as we can remember in order to make sure that doesn't happen because no one likes having their mouth _sewn shut_."  
  
"So your people are fighting a bunch of people who would put your people in chains." Lavellan says.  
  
Dorian narrows his eyes at her. "Yes. So forgive me for not exactly getting along with an elite spy from that group of people who openly cart around mages in literal heavy chains and assign the rest of them numbers as names."  
  
Lavellan raises a single eyebrow.  
  
"Your people are fighting people who want to put your people in chains while at the same time putting other people, namely _my_ people, in chains to help fuel your war against the people who want _you_ in chains." Lavellan concludes. "And I, a person of the race who has been in chains for quite some time - as long as anyone can ever remember - have somehow come to be in charge of a person from the people whom you are fighting against putting you in chains, and you, one of the people my people - _Elves_ , this time - have been fighting against putting us in chains. Did I get that right?"  
  
Dorian glares at her. Lavellan serenely rolls around some more, like a very demented, _smug_ , and clever caterpillar.  
  
Dorian stops her, pulls her upright and attempts to untangle her because he does actually have to sleep on this bed, later.  
  
Lavellan does something from the inside that causes all the sheets to just fall off her in one single motion and she emerges like a beautiful, clever, smug, and annoying butterfly.  
  
"I dislike you _immensely_ at this very moment." Dorian says and Lavellan smiles, serene as he attempts to put the bed back to the way it was before.  
  
"Does that mean you'll try to get along with the Iron Bull?"  
  
"Maybe." Dorian says. "For you. I'll consider it."  
  
"Alright. Good. I'll be talking to the Iron Bull next." Lavellan says, "So don't tell me it's because he provokes you."  
  
"His face provokes me."  
  
"Imagine it's my face on his body then."  
  
"The very idea makes me want to throw up. Your face inspires a deadly mix of fondness and near blind frothing irritation. I might just die from apoplexy."


	164. Chapter 164

"What's this?" Vivienne asks and Lavellan holds out the books, worn and well loved, familiar.  
  
"It was his." She says, eyes lowered to the book's well loved cover, holding them out to her. "I shouldn't have it."  
  
Vivienne touches her fingertips to the cover. _Bastien_. His children learned to read on these books. His grandchildren. She remembers them reading them, the smell of home from the pages whenever they opened.  
  
Vivienne takes the books from the Inquisitor's hands, touching the fading paint. The lettering and the worn binding. Memories. So many memories. Pointless, really. _Lost_. Good and bad and both.  
  
"No, my dear. You take them." Vivienne says, handing them back to the Inquisitor.  
  
Memories. The dip in Lavellan's brow as she sounds out unfamiliar words, the delicate tip of her finger tracing letters and carefully picking out syllables. The smile that blooms over her face when she reads it well enough to understand, when she finally gets the story and is not longer concentrating on the work of reading.  
  
Lavellan, excited as she reads the story to whoever will sit still to listen - the Tevinter, the Iron Bull, Varric, Montilyet, her stag. Lavellan when she says thank you, breathless with awe when Vivienne placed them in her hands the first time and told her to take care of them.  
  
All books are precious. A lesson that all three of them - Pavus, Solas, herself - can at least agree on.  
  
Lavellan takes the books once more, and this time she looks at them like fragile things rather than beautiful things. Cradles them like glass rather than gold.  
  
"I will hold them for you." Lavellan says, "But I will not _take_ them from you."  
  
Lavellan looks up at her, "Thank you."  
  
Vivienne dips her head, tired and worn. Thank _you_.  
  
-  
  
"His name is Sutherland and I think he's rather nice." Lavellan says and Bull hums.  
  
"What did I tell you about talking to strangers who come into Skyhold you haven't been briefed on and haven't been vetted?"  
  
"Don't?" Lavellan tilts her head, "But Bull, if I don't talk to them they'll never _not_ be strangers. That's not you make allies."  
  
"Got you there, Chief." Krem says, ruffling Lavellan's hair before reaching around her and smacking Stitches' head. "Cough up, you owe me."  
  
Bull looks between them as Stitches sighs and hands over some gold pieces.  
  
"I knew she'd talk to him before anyone else." Krem explains.  
  
"You knew who this guy was and didn't think to tell anyone so he could be checked?" Bull raises an eyebrow.  
  
"He's just a _boy_ , Chief." Stitches says. "A skinny one. Not the bad sort. We know the bad sort."  
  
" _We_ are the bad sort." Skinner snorts, sitting next to Bull, reaching over the table to pet Lavellan's hair back into shape.  
  
"I think you're the _wonderful_ sort." Lavellan says, "And he's nice."  
  
"Were you ever going to tell anyone about him or were you just going to keep quiet?"  
  
Lavellan looks faintly puzzled. "He's right in the open where everyone can see him, Bull. I don't think I need to tell people he exists. I think that's more of something I need to do for the person who keeps making wind noises."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The one from the Inquizition."  
  
"The _what_?"  
  
"I told you about this already."  
  
Bull and the rest of the assembled Chargers exchange confused looks. Lavellan sighs.  
  
"See? What's the point in me telling you things if you're just going to forget I told them to you and then get mad at me for not telling you later? Either way, Cullen is sending him out with some troops to take care of trouble. You'll know for certain if he's not the right sort then, won't you?"  
  
-  
  
"When you were in training to be the First of your clan, what did you choose to train in?" Solas asks her, and glances up at him with half moons for eyes and smiles. Solas raises an eyebrow. "A guessing game, da'len?"  
  
Lavellan's half-moon eyes glitter. "You know that I don't talk about my clan here. Dalish talk to Dalish. Elves talk to elves. But now when the shem have ears."  
  
"I see no shemlen here." Solas raises an eyebrow. "And I believe that you do not consider me a flat-ear."  
  
"No, I do not." Lavellan says. "But some things are meant only for the discussion of halla walls. You can guess, but I won't say."  
  
Solas narrows his eyes. "Are you baiting me, _da'len?"_  
  
"Depends, is it working, _hahren_?"  
  
Solas feels his lips twitch upwards. Truly, she would have been - He would have -  
  
In another time, another place, another self, he would have raised her high.  
  
Or perhaps _she_ would have raised _herself_.  
  
"For a Dalish your knowledge of lore and runes is remarkably thorough. Was that your study?"  
  
"No." Lavellan says, "Though I am very interested."

"Does it concern your vallaslin?"  
  
"In only the most roundabout of ways, _yes_. But these marks were awarded for more of my heart and spirit than for my field of study and talent, to tell the truth about it."  
  
Solas thought as much.  
  
"Did you study a craft?"  
  
"No." Lavellan says, "Not any more than anyone else did. What Dalish doesn't learn some sort of craft?"  
  
"A poor one." Solas deadpans and Lavellan laughs. "Hm. Were you a keeper of songs?"  
  
"I am a keeper of many things." Lavellan replies. "Songs, perhaps, might be considered one of them. But who is _not_ a keeper of songs and stories?"  
  
Solas narrows his eyes at her and she flashes her teeth in a starlight smile.  
  
"Were you a trickster, da'len? Following in the footsteps of the wolf?"  
  
"We _all_ follow the footsteps of the wolf, hahren."  
  
"And what of the twisting fates of his well spun words?"  
  
"Ah, that I can only hope to dream of someday becoming as good at. Is there anyone in this world or the next who can outwit the wolf?"  
  
Many. Sometimes you.  
  
Solas hums. "Do I get a hint?"  
  
"Do I get a hint on my next test?"  
  
Solas raises a brow.  
  
Lavellan wrinkles her nose.  
  
"A hint on the next astrarium." Solas concedes. Lavellan claps her hands and makes a quick shape with her fingers.  
  
"Ah. A keeper of faces." Solas says, surprised, "You do not use such magic here."  
  
"It is _sacred_ magic." Lavellan replies, "I would _never_ use it here. Though I sometimes long to. I worked hard for the magic of shapes and faces - earned my shapes. Earned my faces.."  
  
Solas muses that it explains so much about her, to have learned and studied that school.  
  
"I will not tell the others." Solas says. "Though I hear that the Hero of Ferelden studied the changing of shapes."  
  
"Not from _us_." Lavellan points out. "Not _our_ ways."  
  
Solas dips his head, "No. Not your ways."


	165. Chapter 165

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Jaws of Hakkon and Trespassers.

“Sometimes I think we could lose you up here.” Dorian says, and Lavellan sighs, face tilted towards the sunlight like she were a sunflower, rather than the poppy that Varric names her after. Poppies for moons and stars, sunflowers for suns and flames. “Poof, there goes the Inquisitor. Gone Avaar.”

“It’s so peaceful here.” She says, and she looks so incredibly at _home_ in these trees. As if she popped out of the bark, a paler sort of fruit or flower. Lavellan smiles like spring and blooming, gentle frost-kissed things. “I could die here, I feel.”

Dorian stares at her and she turns to smile at him.

“It’s a good thing.”

“I don’t want to think about dying.”

Lavellan’s smile goes from blooming to gleaming.

“You’re a _necromancer_.”

“I still don’t want to think about _you_ dying.”

“It’s a good thing.” She repeats, turning to survey the valley. The air is cold and crisp, oddly sweet in a way that Dorian associates with forest floors and autumn. With her. “I feel like my bones could grow, here. Become a tree. A beautiful tree. It’s – it’s more a home for my bones than the Dales or the Dirth.”

Lavellan raises her arms towards the sky and Dorian has to look away from the flash of the sun through the mark.

“Dorian, I want to be planted here.”

“You aren’t an actual plant, you realize.”

“Dorian.”

“Well how do we know that you’ll go first?”

There are a thousand things Lavellan can say to that – should say to that, and Dorian waits for them but because she’s a _good person_ she doesn’t say any of them. Instead she looks at him, smile going from gleaming to whispering, and she leans towards him. A poppy swaying.

Dorian leans towards her, as far as he dares past the safety rail – a pathetic attempt at a safety rail – and they lace their fingers together. The sun of her anchor mark against his warm mana-clothed palm.

“Dorian.” She says, something hungry and low in her voice. Something that prickles at Dorian’s skin. “Dorian I could die here, Dorian. I could _rest here_.”

Don’t, Dorian thinks. Not yet.

Dorian squeezes her hand that he knows hurts her because she thinks she hides it well but she is Dorian’s best friend. His friend. He knows the tightening of her eyes and what it means when her smile goes to _simmering_.

“That would make two Inquisitors.” Dorian says. “You think this place is out to collect them all?”

-

“I thought I dreamed you.” Lavellan says, and Solas touches his fingers to her temple.

“Perhaps you did. Go back to sleep, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan yawns, but sits up and smiles. They have no trouble seeing each other in the darkness of the Wastes. They both turn to look over the sands from the open tent flap.

“Did you not want to sleep?” She asks him.

“The Veil is thin, here. So much history, so many deaths.” Solas breathes in the cool air. “Yet I do not feel in the mood for such dreams. And you?”

“I thought I was still dreaming and I was just talking to you in a dream.” Lavellan says. She stretches out on the ground, placing her upper body out of the tent and onto the sand. “The night sky is beautiful here. So many stars. And the moon is so large. Like I could hold it.”

Words about ambition and holding the sky, reaching too far.

Not tonight, though. Not tonight.

Solas rests a hand on the back of her leg, tracing the line of vallaslin he knows is there with his index finger. He feels her skin and muscles pull underneath this touch.

“Are your feet well?” He asks.

“Yes.” She says. “I think I’m getting used to the hot sand.”

“We should travel by night instead. You almost fainted, earlier.”

“I’ll be fine.” Lavellan says. “I’m learning.”

Solas hums. “As you say.”

They watch the sky.

“If I never left my clan I don’t think I would ever have learned so much. Hurt so much. Loved so much.” She says. “Is that why you left your people?”

“My people?”

“You always say ‘ _my people’_ when you talk.” She says.

Solas closes his eyes. “I did not think you would catch that nuance.”

“When you live your life in a world where the difference between _us_ and _them_ is the difference between life and death, you live by those sort of words.” Lavellan says. “But that doesn’t answer the question.”

“Yes and no.” Solas says. “Forgive me, I cannot explain it.”

“Will not.”

“Both.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you.”

“I trust you.”

“I know.” Solas squeezes her leg, soft and so very, very pliant and _trusting_. “Thank you.”

-

She stops crying after. _After_. She just stops.

There was a time, Varric thinks, when they couldn’t get her to stop crying. Screaming. Getting angry, getting hurt, getting upset. There was a time when they would all probably cut off their _own_ left arms to get her to stop those tears.

But now she doesn’t cry. Not at all.

Lavellan smiles at him as she passes, wan and somehow paper like. Poppies die after flowering, sometimes.

Her stag holds very, very still. She rode into the Winter Palace on an armored charger, she’s riding out on her own terms. It’s right, Varric thinks. It’s right this way.

The stag is very quiet, very still. Varric can’t look him in the eye. No one can.

It’s like the stag is saying something. Something no one wants to hear. So they turn their eyes away and don’t.

Lavellan’s hand brushes the stag’s nose and she closes her eyes and whispers something. The stag is still. Silent.

Cullen and Blackwall both kneel to help her up. She looks at them, fond. More paper. Varric feels something in his chest crack. Just a little. Like when he watched Hawke lead the way out of the Deep Roads, and when he saw Hawke off before leaving Kirkwall.

Lavellan lets them swing her up onto the stag’s bare back and she wobbles a little, the stump of her arm awkwardly jerking before she finds her balance. She looks out over all of them, assembled there in the courtyard in front of the palace.

Paper and petals that are about to blow away and Varric only hopes that they can catch her again someday.

She hasn’t cried. She hasn’t spoken one way or the other. She’s just quiet. Smiling paper.

Sparkler is worried about her – hell the all are. But she’s different, now. She’s not the same. Not quite Poppy. Not the red poppies she told him she liked best. Not the ones that reach for the sun. The swaying ones.

More like – the faded ones. The ones in the moon. The ones that bleed milk of dreams.

Lavellan guides the stag forward without words and everyone lowers their eyes as she passes. She stops her stag right in front of Varric.

She says, in a low, low voice that isn’t Poppy, isn’t the Inquisitor, isn’t really a voice he’s heard her use -

“You were wrong. We’re going to need something bigger than a miracle for this.”

His mind is called to a time before and beyond, the first opening of the Breach. The words exchanged then. And then she’s gone. Her stag carving his way through them all without protest towards the gates that swing open on silent hinges for her.

-

 


	166. Chapter 166

"You would think that she wouldn't be able to do this sort of thing in the middle of a vast, sandy wasteland. And yet here we are." Dorian says and Sera grunts as she empties out her boot.  
  
Lavellan laughs as she and her hart gallop past, spraying sand in their wake.  
  
"At least she's having fun." Blackwall says.  
  
"I didn't think harts would be so nimble on sand." Dorian continues, "You'd think that great beast of hers would _sink_."  
  
Sera snorts, "As if the sand were brave enough to swallow that thing alive."  
  
Blackwall huffs a laugh and sighs as he shakes some sand out of his helmet. Sand is _everywhere_. Dorian absolutely loathes it with every fiber of his being.  
  
Lavellan's laughter rings out in the still night sky as she brings her hart to a trot and a full stop next to them, just at the edge of the camp's torch lights.  
  
She points, skyward and slightly out of breath, "Dorian, Dorian, Dorian."  
  
"Yes?  Yes?  _Yes_?" Dorian replies, pushing to his feet and slapping the sand off his hands.  
  
"Why is the moon so large here, Dorian?" She asks, her hart turning like he's part of her so that they both face the large and somewhat ominous moon that hangs in the sky. "I don't think I've _ever_ seen the moon look so full and large. Nowhere."  
  
"Astronomy isn't my forte, I'm afraid. Too busy studying the earthly pleasures to give much thought to what lies above. Have you considered asking Solas, considering how much time his head spends above the clouds?"  
  
"Hahren's head is on his neck and above his shoulders." Lavellan replies, sounding perfectly pleased with the world at large, "As it should be."  
  
"It's an expression dumdum." Sera says.  
  
"It doesn't make much sense as an expression." Lavellan replies, reaching up with her hands as if she's trying to cup the moon in them. "Blackwall, Blackwall, Blackwall."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Yes, Yes?" Dorian and Sera add on for him in poor imitations of his gruff voice. He rolls his eyes.  
  
"In all your travels has the moon ever looked that big?" She asks.  
  
"No, m'lady. Though to be honest, I wasn't paying much attention."  
  
"More earthly pleasures." Sera fake-whispers to Dorian who smothers a laugh into a cough when Blackwall turns to glare at them both.  
  
"Sera - "  
  
"Sera, Sera?" Sera finishes before Lavellan can continue. "And before you ask, _no_. Never saw a moon that big. And I _was_ looking."  
  
"Amazing." Lavellan whispers, and her hart rears up on his hind legs, trilling out a sharp trumpeting cry that doesn't echo so much as it washes over the sands. His horns seem to frame the moon, and Lavellan's hand looks incredibly small between them as she reaches at it.  
  
How that girl can remain on that stag when he does things like this - without a saddle or reigns - baffles even Dennet. And that man is never baffled, much less ruffled.  
  
"The world is so amazing!" Lavellan laughs and the hart goes off for another run, trailing the green glow of Lavellan's palm behind.  
  
-  
  
"Kill him." Leliana says.  
  
" _No_." Josephine says.  
  
Cullen says nothing, and Lavellan just looks at him until he shakes his head and shrugs.  
  
"I - will respectfully defer to the Inquisitor's opinion on this." He says and Josephine beams.  
  
"I don't like it when you're _diplomatic_." Lavellan mutters as she glares at the war table. "Varric just says you're being a _man_."  
  
"What does _that_ mean?"  
  
Lavellan shoots him a dark look, "You know _exactly_ what it means."  
  
Leliana hums and Josephine hides her smile behind her quill.  
  
"Kill him." Leliana repeats and Josephine shoots a glare at her.  
  
"Don't kill him."  
  
"Killing him solves all our problems. There's no reason why we should _not_ kill him."  
  
"We can't just kill everyone who gives us problems."  
  
"But that's what we've been doing so far." Lavellan mutters, "And it seems to be working."  
  
Leliana's smile could skin rabbits.  
  
"That's when they're attacking you, that's a battlefield." Josephine replies. "This is not a battlefield."  
  
"I know." Lavellan folds down, only her nose and eyes peering above the table as she draws her scarf over her head in what Cullen and the rest of them have come to associate as her - hush, I'm thinking when I don't _want_ to be - pose. "I don't suppose there's an option where I can peacefully persuade him into a change of heart?"  
  
"No." The three of them say and Lavellan's eyes flick to Cullen. Narrowing reproachfully as she tips her face up so he can see past the hood.  
  
"I thought you weren't going to say anything."  
  
"I said I was going to defer to your opinion, not that I wasn't going to say anything at all."  
  
"You're being a man again."  
  
"I don't - "  
  
"You do." Lavellan taps her fingers on the table top. "Can I postpone this decision?"  
  
"Yes. Certainly."  
  
"But you must make a decision soon."  
  
"Being a man again."  
  
"I really don't - "  
  
"Hush and do whatever it is Leliana always says in times like these."  
  
"Look pretty." Leliana says. "The phrase is, _hush and look pretty._ "  
  
"That one." Lavellan says, waving her finger in the air before pointing at the map and nudging one of his markers into place. "Also we could use more silverite if your soldiers get the chance."  
  
Cullen sighs and she hears him mark a note down for himself.  
  
"I call this war table meeting adjourned until I can figure out if murder is the right answer." Lavellan declares. "May I go to the stables now?"  
  
-  
  
Sera is in near hysterics, and that's more than Bull has ever seen out of the girl and there's a tick in Lavellan's jaw that says she's rapidly approaching her own limits. Her jaw is clenched and she's completely still in the ways she normally is before she explodes into action and death.  
  
Bull and Solas exchange glances and - as grim as things look, they've got to hold it together to get Lavellan and Sera out of here before they lose it completely.  
  
Sera's voice is getting higher and higher, and she's shaking. Bull puts his hand on her back and tries to talk to her, to get her to slow down, stop, breathe but she shrugs him off. Sera moves, and it's like she's doused herself in one of her potions, all prickly and electric. There's a high and wheezing rasp to her voice that means _panic_ and  _blindness_ that Bull knows all too well. Everyone gets those moments. Even the most seasoned of fighters. And Sera may have seen death but she hasn't seen this sort of living suffering. Bull moves to guide her away before she can pass out from stress as Solas moves to take the Inquisitor's hands -  
  
Then Lavellan turns around and slaps Sera, hard.  
  
"Enough." Lavellan says. But it's not her Lavellan voice or even her Inquisitor voice. It's her Keeper voice, the one that says _His name is The Iron Bull_. Solas freezes and it says something. It says a lot of things about her, that voice of hers. That she can make Solas stop in his tracks. That she can make Bull into someone real. Lavellan's face is cool. Like a sheet of ice, like a still pond after rain. Undisturbed by anything.  
  
A mirror of the sky.

If he were a religious - or maybe because he isn't a religious kind of guy, he can make the sentence -  _holy_.  
  
Sera is silent, staring at Lavellan. But quiet and breathing right, now.  
  
"Go with Solas." Lavellan says - commands - "Get on your horse, and go back to camp. Eat something warm. Go to sleep. Stay with Blackwall or Varric if you like."  
  
Sera nods.  
  
Lavellan turns to Solas.  
  
"Get Sera back safely and make a report for the scouts. Alert Cullen and Leliana immediately, also send a messenger to Sahrnia to find out more. Send for Dorian and Cole."  
  
Solas nods and goes to gently take Sera by the elbow and guide her away.  
  
Lavellan turns to Bull. "We will wait for Dorian and Cole."  
  
She looks into him and he doesn't need to tell her that he can hold it together, that he'll be alright. He can stay with her.  
  
"The lyrium is alive, that's what Bianca said in Valammar." Lavellan says to him, looking into his eye, his mind, his self. "Only living things can get the Blight."  
  
In the middle of the snow, with blood and red lyrium the only colors on this dead land she looks like another frozen thing.  
  
Lavellan turns and walks towards one of the cages with the weak and frightened people. Sera's hands had shook too much to pick the locks.  
  
Lavellan takes the lock in her hand and Bull watches as the metal heats, melting with lightning and fire and that thing inside of her that makes the unreal real. He watches as she closes her fist and pulls, the metal hissing as she tosses it aside, rapidly cooling and hardening again in the snow. The door swings open.  
  
"Go." Lavellan says. "Follow the tracks of the horses. You'll find an Inquisition camp. They will take care of you."  
  
Lavellan's eyes meet his over and through the people that slowly, painfully, climb their way out of the cage.  
  
And they will take care of _this_.


	167. Chapter 167

She's beautiful, is one thing people say. At first, when they see her. Another is that - she's odd. Yet another is that - she's strong.  
  
This is not all necessarily wrong, Varric thinks, but they aren't all _right_ , either.  
  
They don't know her the way _they_ know her. And Varric doesn't think _they'll_ ever know her the way that her clan knew her.  
  
And somewhere underneath all that knowing is something unknowable to anyone. Something hidden and kept, like the deepest lyrium vein in the world.  
  
Lavellan flashes a smile sharp and curved enough to gut an animal - a person - with and springs to her feet even as she dodges a templar blade. Varric throws some caltrops and Lavellan disappears in a streak of crackling and hissing ice that makes Varric's hair raise.  
  
Sera swears as Lavellan runs a circle of ice around her, effectively freezing the templars that were closing in on her.  
  
Sera's skin crackles with fire - "I had it!"  
  
"I was helping you have it _better_!" Lavellan replies as she stops just behind Tiny, and Bull - good guy, the Iron Bull - laughs -  
  
"And now you're here to help me have it better, Boss?"  
  
Lavellan laughs with him and jumps onto the head of his axe before he gives her a lift up, and she swings her staff as gravity takes over, lightning like a whip uncoiling, like a snake as she lashes downwards.  
  
Varric wonders if you get more poetic and shit with age, because that's probably the case here.  
  
"I liked you better before you sassed!" Sera yells, after-image shadows of her moving like smoke as she sticks poisoned daggers into every opening she's found in templar armor. "So much better like you wouldn't believe."  
  
"That's not true." Lavellan says, as she flings a new barrier around Sera. "You liked me just fine before you realized I could sass _you_."  
  
"The Tevinter got to her." Bull says over the cacophony of the dying.  
  
Varric snorts. "You say that like you weren't part of the process."  
  
"You say that like we _all_ weren't part of the process." Sera points out.  
  
Lavellan throws a hand up and lightning hums to death around them.  
  
-  
  
"Wolves in Skyhold." Dorian mutters - no, not mutters. Solas can hear him from down here and though the tone may seem like a mutter it is definitely louder than that and echoing. And the man is always complaining about noise - birds - in the library. Solas resists the urge to roll his eyes and continues to sketch Cole and Lavellan's faces as they read one of de Fer's picture books. "Giant deer, giant nugs, birds in a library, dogs underfoot wherever you go, dracolisks, now wolves. What next? Bears? Wyverns? Dragons? Gurguts? _Antivans?_ "  
  
" _Quiet_ Tevinter archivists." Solas suggests and dodges the crumpled up paper Dorian throws down at him. "Childish."  
  
"Nosy and bookish." Dorian returns. "And _you_. What's wrong with you? Looking like the cat that's gotten into the cream. I dislike it immensely. You're supposed to be stern and brooding and boring. The domain of the smug and pleased belongs to _me_. That's how it works. That's our _system_."  
  
"I can't express pleasure at the state of my life?"  
  
"I don't see why you _would_. Considering the giant hole in the sky, the army of Tevinter renegades, people growing red lyrium out of people, the original Tevinter Magister, so on and so forth. No. You've been _peppy_. It's downright unnerving, I'll tell you."  
  
"I'm sure you'll tell me many, _many_ easily observable and inane things I don't care for."  
  
Dorian throws another piece of balled up paper, this one Solas catches and opens. He recognizes it as one of Dorian's failed attempts at modifying the tessellation rune for ice mines.  
  
"Where was I?"  
  
"A wolf in Skyhold." Solas congratulates himself on keeping his voice level. A wolf in Skyhold. If only they knew. But half the fun is that they _don't_ , a small voice inside of him laughs.  
  
"Yes. A wolf in Skyhold. Can you believe it? Ridiculous! Might as well bring in a lion while we're at it."  
  
-  
  
The Inquisitor is singing  and it's not so much as song as she's just singing whatever pops into her head. Krem is at once, endeared and mildly baffled which is a common enough combination that he lets it be. Krem catches her eye and waves her over.  
  
"Hello, Krem." She trills out, taking a seat next to him as he lays out his sewing supplies. "What are you making?"  
  
"I'm going to teach Dalish how to make stuffed foxes." Krem says. "Would you like to help, your worship?"  
  
"Yes!" She sings and starts arranging buttons by some sort of system that Krem doesn't really understand while singing about daisies and buttercream. Krem finds himself humming along. The melody remains mostly constant, it's just the words that she keeps changing. Sometimes even mid-sentence.  
  
"What are you doing?" Sera calls down from upstairs.  
  
"Singing and sewing!" Lavellan sings at her.  
  
Sera snorts, "Yeah, I can hear that. Sewing _what_?"  
  
"Foxes!"  
  
Sera doesn't answer back and Krem takes that to mean she isn't interested, except a few minutes later as Krem is explaining to Lavellan what his needles are made of, Sera comes down with a giant armful of cloth that she dumps on the table.  
  
"Lemme borrow some, yeah?" She says, inspecting Krem's needles before snatching one. "Got things to mend. Might as well do it in company."  
  
Lavellan smiles and that's when Dalish chooses to come in, Solas, strangely, with her as the two discuss something. Lavellan waves at them and the two both give her fond looks.  
  
"Da'len." They both say.  
  
"Hahren!" She sings.  
  
The two blink before Dalish laughs and sings out, "The chanting exercise? Aren't you a little old for that?"  
  
"Yes. And never!" Lavellan sings and they both turn to Solas who shakes his head and waves his hands in defense.  
  
"Not my forte." Solas replies. "I leave the chanting meditations to those with better voices than I."  
  
"You wear humility well." Dalish sings, "But you should be a better example to your da'len."  
  
"Sing for us hahren!"  
  
Sera snickers and Solas shoots a look at the back of her head.  
  
"I think I'll spare all of us the experience. I'll leave you to your sewing." Solas replies, gracefully bowing out. "Until the next time, Dalish. I look forward to seeing how you argue for the physical channel of mana through woven material."  
  
Krem raises his eyebrow as Dalish sits next to him.  
  
"Chanting meditations?"  
  
"It's a Dalish thing." Dalish sings, "Shut up and show me how to sew."


	168. Chapter 168

Love, _I love you_ , is not always a _yes_.

Sometimes, it is a _no_. It is an _enough_. It is a _stop_.

It is an exchange – and the shapes it takes are always different – the response to that I love you can be different things. Stopping, continuing, another word in return.

“I heard you last night.” Lavellan says, as Skyhold comes to life around them. Bull watches her and she watches him, and she asks – _who’s name was that_.

She’s selfish, his saarebas boss. His girl. She’s selfish. She always wants more from them. She wants them down to their marrow, she wants to suck their bones dry.

It isn’t enough for her – _lethallin_ , kadan, friend, mentor, student, pupil, lady, superior officer, da’len. She wants all of it and she wants more than that, too.

She wants all of them, everything she can get her greedy hands on. Hissrad wasn’t enough. She wanted the small voice inside of him that he was too angry and too afraid to name. She dragged that voice out into the world kicking and snarling and threw that voice into the world to be real. Sera the Red Jenny isn’t enough, she wants the Sera that plays with boxes in Denerim’s alienage in slums, too. Blackwall isn’t enough, she forces Rainier back into the world and the sun. She slips her hand into Pavus’ chest until she can bring out the delicate thing of blood and guts that’s knotted deep down inside.

It’s not that she doesn’t give back. She gives too much. She gives everything.

Almost.

And Bull doesn’t want to give this part. Every part but this part. The parts that are Seheron, the parts that are Tama, the parts that are _kadans_ he’s lost to time and war and himself. He doesn’t want to give her these parts. And he knows the parts she doesn’t want to give, either, because she lets him see.

So Bull looks in her in the eye – and because he knows. He knows that she isn’t as clean and innocent as she pretends to be. He’s heard Dalish’s stories. He knows what life is like for them. It isn’t the idyll a lot of people think it is. But Bull knows she pretends because it’s part of her face, the face she gives them because they need it. He knows that she isn’t as clean as she pretends to be for them, and he knows that the only reason they ever hear-see-sense her is because she wants them to. She can keep up with Cole if she wants. Bull knows because she lets him know. It is _them_. It is _kadan_ and _lethallin_ , two ways. She knows that he knows. He knows that she knows that he knows. They are _knowing_ together. – and he says -

“Katoh.”

And just like that her face, her body, the air around her _shifts_. Like the rolling of a ship. And she isn’t the _kadan_ who asked the question he won’t answer. She’s a different sort of _kadan_ , same and alien at once, loved still.

The change would scare, startle, others. Not him. No – it probably should, her ability to just _change_ like that. But it doesn’t. Instead he’s proud, pleased, and all sorts of things that make him relax.

“Do you think Josephine’s had more cakes made for Cullen?” She asks in her not- _kadan_ voice, her different-kadan voice, “Do you think he’ll share? You don’t think it’s too early for cake, do you? I don’t.”

Bull holds out his hand and she dance-skips-flows over to him like so much living water, and tugs him to his feet – or pretends to – with both her hands around his wrist.

And just like that it’s done.

Sometimes, I love you is not _yes_ , sometimes it isn’t an answer. Sometimes it’s accepting that there is no answer.

-

Solas throws his arm out before anyone can react and hisses - “Don’t.”

Lavellan is frozen and her face is unrecognizable. It’s something Bull hasn’t ever seen before – not on her, at least. Not even when she was near insane over the loss of her clan and clawing at his arms and screaming death with every single breath of air in her.

Lavellan’s hands are claws and her face is wild. _Feral_. Like dogs that foam at the mouth. _Rabid_.

Dangerous in the ways that promise death and destruction and pure, unfiltered _rage_ in its worst and darkest form.

The language she speaks isn’t one he’s familiar with. Bull turns to Solas and Dalish to translate but both of them are stone-faced and watching.

The few other elves – Dalish – around them form a loose circle around them. Bull exchanges a glance with Rocky and Dorian who look just as puzzled as he does and if this were any other time he’d joke and ask Dalish – let me guess, an elven thing?

But now isn’t the time.

Lavellan and another elf, a guy with markings that cover most of his face, are hissing-spitting-snarling something at each other too fast for him to figure.

Not too fast for Solas, Dalish, and the other Dalish elves who’ve rapidly formed a ring around them to miss, though.

“What’s – “ Dorian attempts to ask but Solas and Dalish hush him, quickly with sharp hisses.

Lavellan and the other elf are practically in each other’s faces before Lavellan snarls and half-howls something and then it starts.

The two claw and hiss, ripping at each other in a way that can’t be called a fight. Too fucking wild for it. It makes Bull think of Seheron – sometimes the locals would through together snakes and other animals and bet on who’d win. Dogs and chickens, too, sometimes. The two are tearing at each other hissing and snapping teeth at each other and Lavellan lets out a loud cry when a lash of red bursts out on her cheek.

Bull moves forward but Dalish and Solas’ hands suddenly glow with frost and push him back.

“If you move.” Dalish says in a voice so tense that Bull thinks it could shatter by breathing, “She must forfeit and she would be forced to renounce you.”

“Explain.” Rocky says in as low a voice he can manage and the ring of Dalish around them seems to be growing, each face solemn and dark eyed and foreign – alien, distant, _other_.

Lavellan suddenly twists even as the man wrestles her to the ground, slamming her temple against the packed earth as he yells something out to the crowd.

Lavellan’s eyes meet theirs and she bellows something out before kicking hard. And Bull doesn’t know much elven, but he knows that means _not for the shemlen_.

He figures he should be offended.

But he can’t find it in him when he wants nothing more to burst past the thin and brittle wall of skin and bone that keeps him from her.

Lavellan twists, viper venom in her eyes as she hisses, grabbing the man by his hair and surging upwards, slamming her head into his nose. He screams as she drives him to the ground, snarling like the wild thing unleashed in her. _Dangerous thing_ , his mind supplies.

Lavellan pushes to her feet, forcing the other elf to his knees, one hand in his hair and pulling, the other around his throat and squeezing hard.

The two stare into each other, breathing hard and teeth bared before he looks down and away, tilting his throat to her. Something violent and pleased and animal flashes in her eyes as she forces him down, until his head is level with her stomach.

She turns to the circle around them and yells something out.

The elves assembled raise their hands and form shapes with their fingers, and Bull is surprised when even Solas follows suit and they all say something together in unison. Lavellan meets all their eyes, skipping over him and Rocky and Dorian, before she throws the man from her and pointedly turns her back.

Bull watches as the saarebas in her is slowly tucked away. Blood trickles from scratches and bruises are forming – angry and vivid – on her skin. She spits, pink-red to the side.

“Banal dirth.” She says to Solas and Dalish who nod.

“Ma nuvenin.” The two say, lowering their heads as she brushes past them, still not looking at Bull or Rocky or Dorian. When she’s out of earshot the two exchange looks before Dalish sighs. Tension bleeds out of them. “Don’t go to her.” Solas says, catching Dorian’s shoulder. “The injuries must be left untreated or it slights her.”

“ _What_ slights her?” Dorian hisses, “What happened?”

“We cannot say. It is not for you to know.” Dalish says, avoiding Bull’s gaze.

“Because we aren’t elves?” Rocky asks, touching Dalish’s hand and she takes his hand.

“No.” Dalish says. “Even if you were – it is something deeper than that.”

“It is something ugly.” Solas says, slowly as he feels out the words. “Something private that should not have been witnessed by anyone at all. Elven or not.”

“But it is settled.” Dalish adds on, quick as she finally meets Bull’s gaze. “Don’t speak of it. Those are part of the rules.”

“The rules of _what_?” Bull asks.

“I can’t _say.”_ Dalish repeats. “She needs us not to. _She needs us not to_.”


	169. Chapter 169

A kiss is not always a kiss.  
  
When is a kiss not a kiss?  
  
Cole remembers, Cole thinks. He thinks as he watches Pride brush the Passion of - stars? hair. He runs his hands, old and tired through her hair, gentle and careful and so full of love that he doesn't understand what to do with it.  
  
He watches as Pride gently lifts her head in his hands off of his thigh, sliding a pillow underneath. Careful, gentle, waiting to make sure that she doesn't wake, that her head doesn't slide before he moves away.  
  
She has not been sleeping - Cole hasn't been, either, but he doesn't sleep the same way they do. He sleeps only to find them in the Fade.  
  
When is a kiss not a kiss?  
  
Pride sang soft songs to her, soft songs even though he does not like to sing very much but for her he does it because he _loves_ her, here, _now_ , so much it hurts and he didn't remember that it could hurt this way. It's so real.  
  
Cole watches.  
  
Unseen, unknown, unnoticed. Un-forgotten. Un-real.  
  
She has not slept well since Adamant.  
  
Cole slides into her dream, like a knife. Like a kiss.  
  
(The Iron Bull knows a lot about kissing, but he doesn't seem to _understand_ a kiss. Not as well as _she_ does, not as well as Cole thinks he's learning to.)  
  
He can always find her in dreams. She is bright, the Passion of -. Like stars. Many stars, thousands, coming together, moving very fast.  
  
He does not show himself in her dream. She doesn't need him in this one. It is a _good_ dream.  
  
Like this - as he is, like this - he could almost slip. Slide his intangible fingers into the spine of her songs and become _becoming_. Cole does it, lining up his self to her song, her multitude of songs that are sweeter and sadder than lyrium but so much younger and newer. And for a little he thinks he understands - or understands in the way only spirits can - the Passion of - and what it is to _be_ the Passion of -.  
  
It could be so easy to forget.  
  
Cole slips out and away from her dream and waits on the edges for nightmares, knives making the wall of halla she so desperately wants.  
  
When is a kiss not a kiss?  
  
-  
  
Lavellan lands face-first in a pile of hay, with a soft grunt - sprawled limbs in lazy sunlight, and a few minutes later her face goes slack in sleep. Her starfished limbs slowly curl up, and she nuzzles her face into the hay, soft little humming sounds coming from her that aren't quite snores as she sleeps. Blackwall shakes his head.  
  
It's a miracle she doesn't get sicker more often.  
  
He continues to turn over the block of wood in his hands. A new block. A new start. That's what he's decided.  
  
She has forgiven him. Welcomed him. Saved him.  
  
( _Loved_ him.)  
  
He is loyal to her. To this Inquisition of hers.  
  
He thinks of the carefully carved halla, crude and plain, but made with love. He keeps it upstairs, with his precious few belongings.  
  
Blackwall turns the wood over in his hands. Griffons are for - they aren't for him. Griffons aren't him. Griffons aren't who he was, is, will be. Griffons were for guilt. Griffons were for atonement. Mabari and bears and horses and dragons he makes a plenty for the children.  
  
The shape of the halla takes form in his mind, not a replica of the one given with care. A companion, a matching sort.  
  
A doe.  
  
Blackwall sits with the small block of wood and takes his knife to it. Slowly. He wants to do it slowly. Carefully. Each wood chip and shaving made with tenderness that he needs to find in himself again. Dedicated to her, to this, to what she's given him.  
  
A newborn chance.  
  
-  
  
"Forgive me." Lavellan says and Dorian looks at her with something wild and angry and tired and frightened in his eyes. Something that shuts down hard and cold like a door, like a fortress gate.  
  
Dorian looks away and the man with Dorian's face should scare her - Magister, Magister, _Magister_ \- but he doesn't. He is nothing to her.  
  
Dorian is everything.  
  
Selfish, small, growing parts of her snap with lightning and frost, Dorian is _hers_ , not his. Dorian is her clan, her lethallin, _hers_. He doesn't know Dorian like _she_ does. He doesn't love Dorian like _she_ does.  
  
Why should Dorian be afraid of him?  
  
Other parts, smarter parts - the parts that have been trained by the Keeper over the years away from that snapping thing inside of her say -  
  
Family is important. Kin is important. Blood is important.  
  
(Am I not blood?)  
  
Lavellan slips out and to the back, trying to pull herself out of what Mother Giselle has inadvertently brought her into.

A trap, an attack where none was expected. Oh, how poorly this was thought out. Why didn't she know _better_?  
  
Dorian, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Ir abelas, Dorian. Ma nuvenin tel'vir.  
  
I should have listened.  
  
The words scald and burn, and it's like scars are being opened, scabs ripped up to reveal the sick and festering skin underneath. Oozing. Putrid.  
  
Dorian wants to leave.  
  
Blood, Lavellan thinks.  
  
He must stay.  
  
It must not fester any longer, she thinks. She did this to him. She will do her best to fix it.  
  
Lavellan knows what it's like to spend your life not knowing.  
  
-  
  
"You aren't dressed." Dorian says.  
  
"No." Lavellan says, as placid and peaceful as a bowl of water that's been left to sit.  
  
Dorian turns to Bull, " _Why_ is she not dressed."  
  
"Probably because she doesn't _want_ to be dressed. Are you embracing the no shirts movement, Boss? No offense - but I don't think you're quite sturdy enough for that. Also, you might give someone a heart attack if you just walk around like that."  
  
Dorian momentarily goes cross-eyed at the thought of Lavellan prancing around Skyhold without a shirt on. It's bad enough she can only be assed to wear proper shoes with soles half the time and only if someone is actively paying attention to her.  
  
Someone - Dorian would place good money on Cassandra or Cullen - would _die_.  
  
And bring a good portion of Skyhold down with them.  
  
"No." Lavellan repeats, twisting around in Bull's bed to bring the covers up around her.  
  
"Most children leave this stage by your age." Dorian says and Lavellan just looks at him. "The one word stage, I mean."  
  
Lavellan considers something, maybe the position of the sun, the non-existent thread count of Bull's sheets, the stone walls, or maybe even just dust, for a moment before saying -  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Kaffas, woman. How did your parents deal with you?"  
  
Lavellan wrinkles her nose at him and flops down, face first, onto Bull's mattress, disappearing from view as she burrows.  
  
"What did you do to her?" Dorian asks because he's rapidly running out of things to say.  
  
Bull shrugs. "Woke up, she was there. And I got kicked out of bed."  
  
Dorian imagines Lavellan kicking Bull out of anything and snorts.  
  
"I hope you don't actually need her to do shit today. I think she's in a lazy mood." Bull says and Dorian sighs.  
  
"She has a fitting." Dorian closes his eyes.  
  
"No." Lavellan's voice is muffled and Dorian - very nobly, might he add - does not give her a little zap of lightning for it.  
  
The look Bull is giving him says he's not impressed with Dorian's display of restraint.  
  
"Let's just get this nonsense over with, darling. Please? For me? I don't get to drink until you do. How is that fair to me?" Dorian wheedles, approaching the bed and guesses at what part might be her head, patting it.  
  
"That's her ass."  
  
"How do you even know?"  
  
Bull grunts.  
  
Dorian moves his hand to the other end, raising his eyebrow at Bull who nods. Dorian resumes petting.  
  
"You could stand to be sober more." Lavellan says.  
  
"Ah, so she speaks." Dorian teases. "Also I'm plenty sober, but if you expect me to deal with tailors who work for _de Fer_ , you can't expect me to go in there without a light buzz to keep me sane."  
  
"No, you can't get pissed for your fitting." Bull says when the silence starts to stretch. "And _no_ , I'm not helping you get out of this."  
  
Lavellan whines, reminding Dorian of a dog.  
  
"If you go in now and behave, I'm sure they'll let you stay for Cullen's fitting." Dorian says, and he was mostly saving this tidbit so the Commander could save face. But desperate times and such.  
  
The room goes still.  
  
Lavellan's head slowly emerges and she squints at him.  
  
"You're not playing with me?"  
  
"No."  
  
Lavellan puts her face down and Dorian snorts because really who even thinks like that?  
  
"I'm not the only one getting fitted today?"  
  
"They figured they should get the worst two out of the way first."  
  
Lavellan suddenly springs up, and Dorian doesn't know how she manages to stand it, being naked in a fucking mountain fortress and hops down from the bed. It speaks volumes that he doesn't even blink with a face full of naked elf.  
  
"Okay." She says. "But only because Cullen might need my support."  
  
Cullen will most likely not need her _particular brand_ of support. Cullen might even blame Dorian for this.  
  
Dorian doesn't care. It will be _glorious_.  
  
Bull steps aside a Lavellan walks up to the door and Dorian just barely manages to catch her around the waist before she walks out into the castle in all her elven glory.  
  
Dorian glares at Bull who just shrugs and grins as Dorian yanks a sheet off the bed and wraps it around her.  
  
"You are all terrible people."  
  
"I'm not terrible, I'm terrific. Varric said so."  
  
"And what have we said about listening to what Varric says?"


	170. Chapter 170

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

It isn’t her, and for a second – Dorian thinks. Dorian thinks that he’s messed up. He thinks that these months apart have changed them. That perhaps he did not know her at all, that perhaps he has changed for the worse or that she’s become something different, that the physical space between them has put _space_ between them -

She yanks her arm from his hand, hard, and her gaze is sharp and scalding and Dorian feels heat burning and sizzling up through his veins. Because this _person_. This _person_ is perhaps one of the only people who has ever truly _loved him_ and maybe one of the few people Dorian has ever allowed himself to love, back. And she pulls away from him, half a snarl on her lips as the bright and hateful light of the anchor on her hand sears images onto the backs of his eyes.

His touch is unwelcome and he does not remember a time when it was that. Not even when he was burning her pain shut.

For a second, Dorian thinks that he’s lost her. That this is it. It was nice while it lasted.

But Varric and Bull look just as alarmed as he does and she doesn’t look at any of them but barks at Cole -

“We’re going.” And Cole hides his eyes, face turned down as he trails after her. Her back is iron and steel and dragon bone, and walking away from them.

But Dorian sees it in their faces.

It isn’t him. It’s _her_.

There’s something wrong with her – aside from the obvious problems, literally at hand. Something that, in even the few brief weeks-days-hours since they’ve all come together once more has _changed her_ in ways that years of fighting Corypheus and Red Lyrium and Templars and Venatori couldn’t. Making her angry and jagged.

Dorian’s hands close around empty air.

What good is all this love if he can’t even help her?

-

Her hands hold the wooden box like something precious and sacred and Cullen wants to snatch it from her because it _isn’t_. It isn’t any of those things. It’s a curse, a burden, something terrible to be reviled. And to see her hold it in her hands like that makes him sick. Sicker.

Things are echoing inside of his marrow and it feels like there’s grit between his teeth and his eyes.

Lavellan holds the box in her hands, tenderly, and she looks at the worn wood with such care in her eyes.

Cullen wants to know what she’s thinking. Of, this, of him.

He knows she says she thinks he’s brave, he knows that she respects him, cares for him. But this? This level of – of _pathetic_ -

“It’s so small.” She says, voice quiet as it cuts through the echo of his poisoned thoughts. Cullen blinks at her. Her hand runs over the faded varnish of the lid. “But it is so heavy. A heavy burden to have always been carrying. To bring with you, wherever you go.”

Yes, Cullen thinks. The heaviest of chains. The most demanding of shackles.

Cullen wants to take it from her, smash it to the ground, hold it to his chest, throw it out a window, hide it where no one but him can ever find it again.

Lavellan’s fingers run across faded edges.

“This box has known you longer than I have.” She says. “Than anyone here has.”

Yes. It knows me deeper than anything, Cullen thinks. It knows every weakness I’ve spilled with shaking hands. It knows. It is part of me in the worst of ways.

Cullen averts his eyes because he cannot look at her without wanting to spill secrets that he isn’t ready to give. He looks away because sometimes looking at people like her – heroes, saviors, bringers of divine miracles, _good people_  – physically hurts mere mortals men like him. Simple men. Weak men.

Because sometimes looking at her reminds him of all the ways his joints ache and how he sometimes gets tired walking up a flight of stairs too quickly, and how his armor wears down on his shoulders, and all the thousands of other things that drag at his mind with age.

“I would know you.” She says and Cullen stares at the grain of his desk. “There are lots of people here who would know you. I cannot imagine carrying this my entire life. Not by myself. Sometimes I get scared with how strong you are, Cullen. You scare me, just terribly.”

The words _I apologize_ linger in his mouth out of route.

Cullen looks up as she walks around the desk to stand close to him. He can almost smell the magic in, on, her. He looks up and she holds the box out to him.

Her eyes tell him to take it.

His hands reach out and accept it, the familiar grooves and weight of it suddenly not – lighter, smaller, than before.

They stand there, holding the box, weightless and suspended between them.

Her face looks a little divine around the edges, frightening and consuming. Cullen feels tremors in his arms. Her fingers are touching his and her eyes are touching his.

“You frighten me.” She says. “And I wish you didn’t have to be so strong.”

Cullen could say the same to her, if he had a voice that wasn’t about to scream murder for lyrium.

She lets go and the box remains weightless, immaterial in his shaking hands.

“I can’t do it.” Cullen finds himself rasping out, “I need it.”

“I can’t do it, either.” She replies. “Defeat Corypheus, I mean.”

“You can.” Cullen replies, automatically because she can. If there’s anyone who could do it, it’s her. He knows. He watched them face off once before. She has the upper hand, now. She can do it.

“You believe in me.” She says.

“Yes.”

“You have faith?”

“Yes.”

(This is familiar. This is something familiar and like home and everything _good_ in him. Cullen knows faith. He knows belief. He knows this.)

“Then you can do it. You said that this is what you wanted. I have never seen you fail to do something you pursued with all of your strength of will. You believe in me. I believe in you. Are you going to make me wrong, Cullen?”

She looks at him and it is part command, part love, part question, part something else.

Cullen breathes and his hands steady.

“No, my lady. I will not.”

Cullen chose this. She chose him. He will not fail her.

-


	171. Chapter 171

“And here I thought you’d be smug.” Dorian says, even as Lavellan and Cole links hands, Cole tentatively breathing on Lavellan’s pale and slightly shaking ones. Dorian rolls his eyes and takes both their hands in his own, Cole looking up at him with surprise and something Dorian hesitantly labels as affection, and Lavellan throwing a pale-lipped smile at him.  He would be rather offended – his presence should inspire nothing but rosy and bright things, but it is _freezing_ in the middle of a frost-hexed mountain range.

“That comes for after I finish what Ameridan started.” Lavellan says, “Then I’ll be as smug at the Dread Wolf.”

“Probably shouldn’t be comparing yourself to the paraiah of the Dalish pantheon, love.” Dorian snorts.

Lavellan gives him a _look_. “But Dorian, didn’t you know it’s fashionable to be a pariah now? Everyone’s doing it.”

“Joking in the middle of stressful and trying times is _my_ thing, not yours.” Dorian says, squeezing her fingers, Cole’s fingers, between his palms. “I do hope you have a plan.”

“I haven’t been killing High Dragons all over the rest of Thedas for nothing, Dorian. I have a very vague plan and it mostly involves hiding behind Cassandra.”

“At least you’re honest.” Dorian mutters.

“She’s only joking.” Cole says, “She means to hide behind you, mostly. Cassandra’s too much of a moving target to hide behind.”

“Cole, you are giving away my plan.”

“This assumes that I would go with you.”

“You assume that you would _not_ go with me.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Ah, but you see – this time, _I won’t_.”

“No. Like last time, and the time before that, _you will_.”

“Fasta vass, woman, how many dragons are you going to drag me around to slay? And this one with a _Avaar God_ trapped inside of it. Just ask me for the impossibly insane, why don’t you?”

“Dorian, you’ve taken me through time. I feel like this ought to be something much more realistic. After all, you are helping me destroy an ancient Tevinter magister who caused the First Blight.”

“Dorian’s also joking. He’d go with you into certain death.” Cole says, they both ignore him in favor of the game of words because if they stop talking their mouths might freeze shut. Dorian squeezes Lavellan’s hand in his before letting go she _beams_ at him and Dorian sighs, breath frosting in the air.

 _Southerners_.

“Let’s go kill an Avaar God and be done with it. I am starting to miss what you Southerners call _civilization_.”

-

“Um, excuse me, but I didn’t. You know. Join up for this to happen. Literally the opposite of what I had in mind.” Sera says and Lavellan makes a face. “Look at this. Look at this face.”

Sera grabs Lavellan’s face between her hands and aims it at Cassandra.

“Look at this. Did you hear what she just said? Let’s go fight three dragons in a row. That’s what she said. I’m out. I’m done. See you at Skyhold. Fuck this _shit_.”

“But you like fighting dragons.” Lavellan says, words slightly slurred from the way Sera’s squishing her face.

“No. Yeah. I mean, who don’t? But. _The snow is up to our knees_.” Sera says. “And you want us to fight on _ice_. Are you crazy or something? Did someone sneak some sort of brain-melting thing to you when I wasn’t looking? Three dragons. In a _row_. In the middle of snow and _ice_. It’s just barely _dawn_.”

“That means more time to fight each dragon.”

Sera squeezes Lavellan’s face and turns to Cassandra and Vivienne.

“Do you hear this?”

“I hear it.” Cassandra says. “I’m going.”

“To Skyhold?”

“To fight three dragons in a row. If that is what the Inquisitor wants, that is what we will do. I am not going to allow her to walk into three dragons alone.” Cassandra says.

“I will go for _one_ dragon.” Vivienne says, “And but then I have duties to return to in Suledin Keep.”

Dorian throws an arm out of his tent, “I’ll go for one. Maybe. Do any of them breathe fire? Because that’s the one I’m going for.”

“I’ll go for all three.” Bull says, meandering up the steps, a steaming bowl of something slightly less questionable than what Sera had for breakfast in one of his hands. “Seems ambitious. But hey, nothing wrong with that.”

“And as the black clouds came upon them, they looked on what pride had wrought, and despaired.” Solas deadpans from where he’d been mixing healing potions with Cole.

Lavellan shoots him a dirty look.

“Look to the schools of others in order to find the faults in your own.” Solas says. “I will fight _one_ dragonbecause moderation is key.”

“Unhelpful.” Lavellan says. “We should get it all done in one day!”

“You just don’t want to lose your bet.” Sera says.

“That too!”

-

There is something of the moon in her face, Blackwall thinks. Something waxing, something waning. Something full, something hidden. Many sided and pulling, pushing at the world.

Lavellan’s face is tipped up to the inky sky and she looks peaceful. All the way at the arse-end of Thedas, away from the courts and castles and such.

Blackwall makes his feet make sound on the sand and she tilts her head in acknowledgement.

“Supper is ready, my lady.” He says and she turns to look at him over her shoulder.

“Thank you.” She says, and turns her face back to the sky. She leans back against her stag’s flank, and Blackwall wonders what they spent all that time for – trying to suss out a good desert mount for her if she was just going to end up riding her stag as always.

He sometimes thinks that stag is going to go with her right to death’s doors themselves. Lasting longer than any of them, those who call themselves her inner circle.

That stag was with her in the beginning, he’ll be with her in the end.

“Blackwall.” She says and he kneels by her. Her hands are folded over her stomach as she looks up into the sky, the light of the camp fires dimming the night-dark reflection in her eyes. “It’s so quiet out here. Solas says that deserts used to be like oceans and marshes and such. But all the water went away. Where do you think it went?”

“I don’t know.” Blackwall says.

“And the fish and the people, too. Where did they go?” Lavellan’s mark makes soft shadows on her clothes. “I wonder if anyone went with them. Blackwall tell me about the places you’ve been.”

“Now?”

“Later. After we eat. I – “ Lavellan’s hand curls. “I always knew the world was so big. I just didn’t realize how big, I think. I want to see it.”

Blackwall doesn’t say _you will_ because as much as he hopes he doesn’t know.

She has to live through this, first. It hardly seems fair. Her life just starting now that the world is ending.

Unless they can stop it.

Blackwall touches her shoulder and she slowly fixes her moon of a face onto him.

“Shall we?” He asks and offers her his hand.


	172. Chapter 172

When Dorian finishes outlining his plan for setting Krem up – and bless them, Cole and Lavellan tried so hard but they weren’t getting anywhere – the two look at him and then at each other and then raise their hands in unison.

“Yes, the cute one with the darling nose?” Dorian says, leaning his hip against the table. And bless them. Truly. They both _look at each other_ and wait for the other one to speak.

“Cole.” Lavellan says when their deadlock gets a little too long, and Bull is laughing at him from across the room and really, shouldn’t Bull be the one organizing this instead of Dorian? Krem is _his_ lieutenant, after all.

“I don’t actually have a question.” Cole says. “I just raised my hand because that’s what you told me to do when people ask you if you have questions.”

“No, that’s only for Solas, Cole.” Lavellan replies, then raises her hand again.

“Yes, the cute one with the darling nose and is an _elf_.” Dorian says.

“What’s an Orlesian tickler and is it made of feathers?”

Which has nothing at all to do with anything that came out of Dorian’s mouth.

Dorian just stares over her head at Bull who rolls to his feet, walking over like he hasn’t been mocking Dorian from afar this entire time and rests a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder.

“I’ll tell you when I think the Seeker and the other half of this castle that’d kill me if they knew I told you isn’t in earshot.” Bull says and Lavellan and Cole nod at each other.

“Any questions pertaining to our _plan_?” Dorian continues and this time neither of them raise their hands. “Good. We shall commence whenever Krem gets back from doing whatever it is he does when he isn’t in his corner drinking and pretending not to be obvious.”

-

“Question. Why does Solas look a good three seconds from bursting out into either uncontrollable laughter, tears, dancing, yelling, or maybe even passive aggressive sleeping – which I did not know was possible until I came to the land of barbarians?”

Lavellan rolls her eyes, and raises her voice so she can be heard above the din of battles, “You aren’t even religious, hahren!”

Dorian looks to what looks like a worn statue of an elf and the way Lavellan is scraping her boot on it.

“Isn’t that sacrilege for your people?” Dorian asks, because he’s pretty sure if he tried scraping dung, muck, and viscera off his own boot on a statue of Andraste he’d be hung, drawn and quartered, set of fire, and scattered to the winds before he could even blink.

“Desperate times, Dorian. I am sure that if Elgar’nan were here right this very second he would forgive me for scraping internal organs off of my foot with a small corner of his statue. It’s not like I’m using his face.”

“No, you were just using his face as a blunt instrument.” Solas says, apparently having recovered from witnessing this act of defilement – though his face is looking rather red.

Lavellan just stares at him.

“I am sure that Elgar’nan, God of Vengeance, wouldn’t mind me using his face as a make-shift weapon in order to defend myself.” Lavellan then looks at the bottom of her boot. “I’ll make prayer later. When we aren’t in the middle of a battlefield. I don’t even know why you’re mad. You don’t believe.”

“I’m not _mad_.” Solas says, and Dorian cocks an eyebrow because. Well. He is rather _red_ in ways that can’t be explained by sunburn.

“No, you’re just disapproving. Which is why you had to leave and walk around for five minutes to calm yourself.” Dorian says.

Solas shoots Dorian an annoyed look. Dorian smiles. He lives to annoy.

“It makes one wonder what she does to statues of Fen’Harel, doesn’t it?” Dorian asks.

“I pet them on the nose and call them good boys.” Lavellan replies.

Solas chokes and Dorian gives him a _look_ and then slaps his back a couple of times.

-

Patience is a learned skill, one that is practiced and therefore expounded upon through time and work. But the fruit of it pays off.  
  
Bull catches Lavellan on the seventh lap, literally holding out one hand and grabbing at the right moment, three and two half-fingers moving to gather her up as he curls his arm around her waist. He feels the light stutter of her breath and she turns to smile at him.  
  
"Hello." She says, and air mists in front of her nose and mouth like she's a halla, herself.  
  
Bull feels his lip twitch up, "Hello."  
  
Bull holds her and she seems content to be held-hung like this in mid-air, legs dangling, body half bent, half curled around his arm. Bull shifts his weight and feels snow shifting with him.  
  
"Early morning run?" Bull asks and Lavellan nods after a moment, as if she was considering the plausible deniability of that statement.  
  
"Sure." She says and Bull puts her down, they both watch as her feet disappear into the snow.  
  
"You are awake." She says, "Why?"  
  
"You're also awake, but I'm not asking why."  
  
"You did when you asked if I was on an early morning run. You aren't running."  
  
"No, I'm catching." Bull replies and Lavellan seems to be considering this.  
  
"And if I were not running, what would you be doing?"  
  
"Dunno. You weren't _not_ running."  
  
"Tomorrow, if I do not run. Will we find out?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Lavellan nods, as if they've made a promise - maybe they have - and turns to walk into Haven's gates.  
  
Patience is a learned skill. Reading Lavellan, might be another.  
  
-  
  
Two weeks of hard riding is barely enough to get her to Skyhold and healers in time. Dorian and Solas look exhausted, having taken turns keeping her stable, and Bull looks no better, having been the one to carry her and keep her steady on the mounts.  
  
Leliana is at the gates, already knowing as she directs Skyhold's surgeons on taking the Inquisitor for treatment.  
  
Vivienne shoves bottles of lyrium potions into Solas and Dorian's shaking hands.  
  
"Infection." Solas gasps out, "Infection in one of her closed wounds. Cut open and cauterized, but only as a temporary measure. The infection is still strong and spreading, fever and difficulty breathing, unable to stay conscious. Blood loss."  
  
In a display of camaraderie that would have made Lavellan beam if she could see it, Vivienne allows the other two mages to sag against her, taking their weight as she guides them to somewhere to sit and rest.  
  
Blackwall and Cullen take the horses and stag, Cullen clapping a hand to Bull's arm. Bull shakes his head and wearily goes off to the rooms he and the Chargers use.  
  
Lavellan is as limp and unaware of all of this as a discarded rag doll.


	173. Chapter 173

"Come on, Loranil, dance with me." She says and Solas watches the boy shuffle, nervous even as they eye the gathering of elves by the fire.  
  
"But the Herald of Andraste - " He says and she boggles at him before he lets out a nervous laugh. "Well, you couldn't blame me for being nervous, could you?"  
  
"I _could_. I won't, though." She says, snagging his arm in hers, "For all we know, it was Andruil or Sylaise. Stop looking at me like that. We're both _da'len_. Please, dance with me?"  
  
Loranil's eyes flick to Solas and Solas holds his hands up because he isn't going to be dragged into this. He doesn't know why she brought him here, and he isn't going to make it easy for her. She knows his opinions on the Dalish and sitting with them for a night or two won't change much of it. Cole has flickered away, to somewhere that isn't here. Solas is mildly jealous of the ability. Bull for the most part seems content to sit and be cautiously walked around like a stationary ornament that can talk.  
  
" _That_ hahren doesn't dance." Lavellan says, following Loranil's quick gaze. "He won't do _anything_. It's okay. And you have odd numbers. So someone is going to get left out. Dance with me."  
  
Loranil sighs but lets her drag him over to the fire and soon enough both of them are smiling as they enter the circle of dancing elves.  
  
The Keeper meets Solas' eyes from the other side of the fire and gives him a curt, if not warm, nod of acknowledgement. Solas meets his gaze and gives a nod of his own.  
  
It is good that they don't reject her for what the shemlen claim her to be.  
  
Though she did have to prove her worth - ridiculous, but there it is.  
  
The dance and song are familiar enough in rythm, if not purpose and origin, that Solas can make half-guesses at the root of it and the next steps and words. The Dalish have taken what was left behind and spun it into new dreams. When they aren't attempting to mimic the old they do quite well. Solas would be impressed if he didn't know the origin of it all.  
  
Lavellan and Loranil have long changed partners, and by the time the song is done Lavellan's face practically glows as she skips over to the Iron Bull and tries to coax him up.  
  
"I asked. This one you can do." She says, tugging at his large hand with both of her own. "Don't _embarrass_ me. That's an order."  
  
Bull laughs, low and subdued before letting her pull him up. "Tall order for such a little boss."  
  
Lavellan drags him to the fire and speaks to the other elves for a few moments, hands flying with her speech as the others eye Bull, wary before tentatively  nodding and accepting him into their circle.  
  
Solas wonders if this clan is really that accepting or if Lavellan is just that convincing.  
  
Probably the latter. After all, she convinced him to come here, did she not?  
  
-  
  
"I'll show you shems how its done." Lavellan snorts, whistling high and sharp for her stag to come over from where he was grazing by the clan's halla pens.  
  
"If Sera, our fastest runner, couldn't catch that thing, I don't see how you can." Dorian says, holding out his waterskin to Sera who wheezes before collapsing on the ground and groaning.  
  
"Grass itches everywhere. _Gross_."  
  
Lavellan rolls her eyes, handing Blackwall her staff.  
  
"Amateurs." She says, exchanging a glance with Loranil and a few of the other Dalish who've come out to watch. She says something to them, very fast, too quick for Dorian to translate. Something about Ghilan'nain, though.  
  
The other elves murmur to themselves and sound impressed before giving Lavellan a gesture that probably means get on with it.  
  
Lavellan shucks her coat, throwing it at Blackwall and tossing her boots, too.  
  
She tosses them in the other direction as far as they will go and Dorian is going to have to find those later. He just knows it.  
  
The Dalish snicker as Lavellan kicks her feet onto the ground, making dust rise. Sera sneezes.  
  
"I'm trying to breathe here."  
  
"Sorry, sorry." Lavellan says, patting her stag's flank before pulling herself half up. Not sitting on him, but sort of hanging off his side. It looks uncomfortable.  
  
Lavellan whispers something to the stag who slowly starts to walk in a large circle towards the golden halla in the distance. Dorian watches as the stag enters a slow trot, closing the circle on the halla that's now just started to realize what's happening.  
  
When the halla bolts, Lavellan lets out a high pitched screech that sounds remarkably like some sort of crow or raven, and the stag trumpets, leaving his slow trot into a full on gallop, still moving in a circle. Lavellan - somehow, miraculously - still hanging on before the stag suddenly turns, and Lavellan flings herself off and straight into a run, directly behind the halla.  
  
The halla makes a high sound of distress and Lavellan's stag thunders onwards, in front of the halla, pushing the path slowly towards the camp. Lavellan is lagging behind and to the left, but it's enough that the halla won't turn.  
  
Lavellan lets out a sound - a sort of barking howl that reminds Dorian of foxes.  
  
The halla puts on an extra burst of speed and they watch as the halla runs right up to the halla pen and stops.  
  
Lavellan's sides are heaving and her face gleams with sweat when she reaches them, but she's smiling.  
  
"Nicely done." One of the elves says, grasping her shoulder in her hand. "Nice riding."  
  
"And that's how we do it among the Dalish." Lavellan laughs, half-breathless and half-wild. "Halla runs are _fun_. I forgot how fun."  
  
-  
  
"And what are you doing?"  
  
"A handstand."  
  
"I can see that. Why?"  
  
"Stitches says that handstands help him think better."  
  
"And you believed him."  
  
"Stitches hasn't lied to me _yet_."  
  
"At least you acknowledge that there's a yet." Blackwall hums. "How long have you been doing that?"  
  
"I don't quite know."  
  
"Your face is red."  
  
"It _feels_ red. Do you think I should stop?"  
  
"Probably. What were you thinking about, anyway?"  
  
"Nothing in particular. I just wanted to see if this helps thinking like Stitches said."  
  
"It probably only works if you were thinking about something to start with."  
  
"This is most likely true." Lavellan concedes. "Blackwall I think I am stuck."  
  
"Do you need assistance, my lady?"  
  
"It would be most welcome." Lavellan replies, sighing in relief when Blackwall helps her get up, dusting some hay off her back. "Thank you. My arms feel wobbly."  
  
"That tends to happen when one does a handstand for too long." Blackwall says. "It probably doesn't help that it's the middle of a blizzard and you're in a barn."  
  
"I didn't want to risk the courtyard." Lavellan admits. "And it seemed warm enough at first. Then I got stuck in the handstand and couldn't figure out how to fall without hurting myself to get a blanket."


	174. Chapter 174

Lavellan sits there all trusting eyes and slightly nervous mouth, fidgeting fingers and eager to please twitches. Dorian closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn’t know how de Fer and Solas do it. How they say no to that face. It’s impossible. Not even _Cullen_ can say no to that face and he says no to _Dorian’s_ face all the time. It would be insulting if Dorian didn’t know how potent that _face is_.

Dorian holds up a sheaf of paper to cover her face from his sight. He can literally feel her droop. The room might actually be dimmer. The temperature might have dropped. He can hear sad violins starting up. There is an ominous cloud in the distance. A plague has struck somewhere.

Dorian grinds his molars together. Is this how Cassandra feels every time she looks away from a training dummy?

“No – yes. _No_.” Dorian says, mentally reciting part of the Chant because maybe that will keep him from succumbing to her _wiles_.

He’s faced actual demons, for fuck’s sake. He can handle _her_.

Lavellan kicks a foot against the floor and the sun literally dims a little. He feels it. An ocean is three seconds from drying up as they speak. Or as Dorian refuses and Lavellan plunges into sorrow.

“But – “ She starts -

“No.” Because if Solas and _de Fer_ can say no to her, why can’t he? She likes him better, even. That might, part of Dorian’s brain mutters, be part of the problem.

“Dorian – “

“I am not listening to you. Ask the hermit one flight of stairs below us.”

“He said no.”

“Then why do you think I’d say yes?”

“Because you’re better than he is.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“But I thought it was _fact_.”

“I don’t like it when you talk to me with that face. It messes up my process.” Dorian turns to glare at the wall that _mocks him_ by looking especially despondent for a _wall_.

“Dorian, please?”

“I am not going to give in this time. I still have rashes from last time.”

“But _dragons_.”

“Take that ox of yours along.”

“But I need another mage. And I’m not good at fire spells, Dorian. This one breathes electricity – according to our scout reports. I can’t do it without you.”

“Remind me why Solas and de Fer said no?”

“Vivienne has things to finalize for Halamshiral. Solas went out.”

Dorian turns to look at her.

“He went _out_.”

“Or he’s going out. He’ll be busy, is what I mean. When we go.” Lavellan looks sadder. “Please, Dorian? You said I shouldn’t go fight dragons without you, remember?”

“That was before the third dragon. That was before I discovered I got rashes from going to the Exalted Plains. That was before I accidentally swallowed a piece of _undead_ because _Sera_ couldn’t control herself when she was aiming.”

“It was only a little piece.” Lavellan holds her fingers apart. Dorian points a finger at her.

“Don’t.”

“Dorian.” Lavellan looks like a kicked puppy mixed with a half-drowned kitten, and while he’s at it, a baby bird that got pushed out of its nest.

Dorian grinds his teeth. “Only the dragon. And we’re gone. I am not putting up with that place for any longer than necessary.”

-

Cassandra doesn’t know how she does it, because sometimes even Cassandra’s own faith is shaken. Everyone’s faith is shaken, tested, by the Maker. She knows Lavellan doesn’t believe in the Maker, but she does believe in her gods.

And yet her faith does not waver.

There is a saying common among the Dalish – _never again will we submit_  – but Cassandra thinks that Lavellan is something beyond that sentiment.

Lavellan rolls over, forehead touching against Cassandra’s shoulder as the night around them yawns open.

Cassandra prays in her mind and she doesn’t know how Lavellan can trust so many of them so readily. She is grateful for that trust, but she doesn’t know how she does it.

Cassandra held a sword to her neck the first time they met. And now Lavellan trusts Cassandra’s shield to keep her safe from harm.

Lavellan’s forehead is a soft and gentle pressure against Cassandra’s shoulder and when she turns to look, Lavellan is curled up, trusting and relaxed.

How?

Cassandra once said that she’d believe for the both of them, but she’s rapidly beginning to think that Lavellan has more belief – more faith – than anyone Cassandra has ever met. Not towards the Maker, perhaps, but towards something closer than Him. Something much more dangerous and fallible.

 _People_.

-

Lavellan’s hand is actually clammy in his, and she looks absolutely awful. Krem sits her down next to him, and she looks like she’s going to throw up if she gets up again.

“I don’t know how you made it down the stairs, your worship,” Krem says, “But I am both amazed and terrified.”

Lavellan looks faintly green.

“Don’t answer.” Krem says and Lavellan squeezes his hand. “You should be resting.”

Lavellan looks a little greener and Krem helps her lie down on the bench, looking around. Stitches is probably helping the surgeons right now. Dalish might be in the garden.

Krem catches Flissa’s eye and she looks at him and the bench and hurries away to the back of the tavern to the larder.

Krem idly brushes some of Lavellan’s hair from her face, taking a moment to trace his thumb over the crest on her forehead. Lavellan’s face relaxes a little.

Lavellan hums a little, sounding croaky and sick.

“Don’t say anything, your worship. We’ll get you back up and swinging in no time.” Krem says. “As long as you keep your breakfast down and digesting, that is.”

Lavellan’s pale lips twitch upwards but otherwise she’s very still and Krem does his best not to jostle her when he sits by her head. Flissa comes over with a bowl of water and a rag – miraculously clean –, and a small tray of foods.

“Poor thing.” Flissa says, fingers hesitating over Lavellan before Krem nods. Flissa brushes Lavellan’s hair, once, “You stay right here. I sent a serving girl to the cooks. Getting you some broth as we speak. Nice and warm. In the mean time have a little bread. Just a little to get your stomach settled. I’ll go tell Harding outside not to let anyone loud in. Then we’ll get you upstairs to one of the beds.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Krem says and Lavellan’s eyes slit open just a little bit to watch as Flissa wrings out one of the rags and dabs at Lavellan’s forehead. Lavellan sighs. “Cooler?”

Lavellan hums another croak in assent and Krem takes the cloth to dab at her jaw and neck.

Flissa goes off to talk to Harding.

“When you’re better you’re going to tell me how you got down all those stairs and past half an entire castle without being noticed, falling down, throwing up, or dying.” Krem says.


	175. Chapter 175

"I trust you." She says, and turns away to throw lightning and Dorian can only stare at the back of her head for a few moments before he joins the fight too.  
  
Three little words. Shocking. Rational - considering their situation. Logical, too. And tactically wise. But still, shocking.  
  
You don't _know_ me, Dorian thinks. Because to be frank, Dorian isn't sure if he trusts her and if it weren't for the situation they're in he doesn't know if things would be like this.  
  
But one can hardly be discriminating in choice of allies when one is stranded in an unknown portion of hostile enemy territory.  
  
So Dorian raises fire around them both and Lavellan's barrier washes over them in a gentle breeze-like wave of mana that makes Dorian think of petals in spring and the crackle of leaves underfoot.  
  
"I trust you." She repeats as she wipes blood - not hers, not his, someone else's - off her cheek, shaking her staff a little to rid it of unwanted ambient static energy. She turns away from him again, this time to drag one of the bodies out of the water and go through its pockets. She fishes out a key - "This looks important."  
  
"That's most likely because it is." Dorian replies and she holds the key up to the dim, red light.  
  
"If there's a key there's a door." Lavellan's lips curl up. "Do you think there's something important behind that door?"  
  
"One way to find out, I suppose." Dorian says, bowing a little as he gestures towards the only way out. "After you?"  
  
-  
  
"Bears are sacred to the Dalish, too." Lavellan says as she scratches Storvacker's ears. Storvacker gently presses her head against Lavellan's side.  
  
"And now I'm concerned because of all the bears we've killed." Varric says.  
  
"Well, no. That's self defense. I'm sure Dirthamen doesn't mind." Lavellan says, "I'm sorry. I don't have any treats for you. Maybe you should ask Sera? She always has something sweet."  
  
"Dont' feed her too much. Remember what Thane Sunhair said?" Bull reminds her, "You'll make her complacent."  
  
"She's been through a trying time." Lavellan says, "She just wants some comfort. I don't blame her."  
  
Lavellan takes the bear's face between her hands and looks into Storvacker's eyes.  
  
"Do you know any of Dirthamen's bears? Are you one of his bears? Do the bears still keep their secret?"  
  
Predictably, Storvacker says nothing. At least, nothing they can understand. Storvacker grunts and licks Lavellan's face before gently extricating her head from Lavellan's hands and lap, rolling up onto her legs and walking away.  
  
"I like bears." Lavellan says. "When they aren't attacking me, I mean. It's fun being a bear. They see so many interesting things."  
  
"Sure." Bull says.  
  
Varric's brow wrinkles and - "Isn't there a Dalish - "  
  
Lavellan reaches out and puts her hand over his mouth and shushes him.  
  
"We don't talk about that in shem places. I know Merrill taught you that. She told me in her last letter."  
  
"Since when did you write to Daisy?"  
  
Lavellan looks mildly insulted.  
  
"We're both Free Marcher clans. One of my mother's kin exchanged with one of Sabrae's crafters a generation back. And we also knew the Ferelden clan Merrill came from. All Dalish know each other in some fashion. I just didn't have a way to talk to her until I learned how to write and send mail."  
  
-  
  
"My mouth." Lavellan says, strangely slow and careful, lips moving in large and oddly exaggerated motions, "Is numb. Except for where it tingles. Is this supposed to happen?"  
  
"No." Vivienne says, looking mildly alarmed and Cullen looks between her and Lavellan and then at Solas and Dorian who are all looking degrees of mildly something. Solas is mildly surprised, Dorian is mildly terrified, Lavellan is mildly uncomfortable.  
  
There is something about mages and looking _mild_.  
  
Cullen wonders if Vivienne has just poisoned the Inquisitor and what he should - probably - be doing about that.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
"And this _means_?"  
  
"We start over from scratch." Solas says.  
  
"And this is why we don't test out things we read off of cave walls on important people." Dorian says, "Can you feel your fingers? Your toes?"  
  
Lavellan blinks, eyes watering and Cullen holds out a water skein to her which she slowly takes and drinks out of.  
  
"It itches." She says, starting to lisp. "Also I want to sneeze. Violently. _Forever_."  
  
Solas takes her wrist and seems to be taking her pulse, humming at whatever result he gets.  
  
"It was the nettle." Solas says though Vivienne and Dorian make noises that sound like disagreement. "Do you feel especially warm?"  
  
"No?"  
  
"I meant what are we going to do about  _her_. Not the potion recipe. Is  _she_ going to be alright?" Cullen asks, because as fascinating as he's sure this is, they do need the Inquisitor in one functioning piece. One that can talk.  
  
Josephine would have a fit. Josephine is  _going_ to have a fit.  
  
Lavellan's look of _mild_ discomfort is growing into one of _normal_ discomfort - or at least the amount of discomfort Cullen assumes one would have in this situation. "I am feeling the oddest tingling sensation."  
  
"Where?" Vivienne asks, as she and Dorian finish checking Lavellan's hands and arms for signs of - something.  
  
"I'd rather not say." Lavellan's face is slowly growing red. "But I really think we ought to work on an antidote for whatever you just gave me. And I'd like to volunteer anyone but me for the next round of tests."  
  
Lavellan then sneezes extremely loudly and violently, then faints straight into Cullen.  
  
Cullen stares at the mages who are staring at Lavellan.  
  
"No more testing on the Inquisitor." Cullen says after a beat of silence. "If you really need someone to test things on we have prisoners for the strong and questionable things, and we have guards who misbehaved on duty for the mild and slightly less questionable."  
  
-  
  
"I'd commend you for not setting anymore bees on fire, but that isn't something I should have to commend _anyone_ for." Cullen says and Sera shrugs. "In the meantime, good job on clearing out the Venatori camp. The Inquisitor was surprised and pleased to learn about that when she came back."  
  
"Can't let her have all the fun, right? I didn't come here to sit on my ass and hear people sing annoying songs about me." Sera replies, "Anything else, or can I go now?"  
  
"You may." Cullen says, "But one question - did you meddle with my desk?"  
  
"No. Why?"  
  
Cullen stares at her. "Sera."  
  
"What? Why're you looking at me like that? I didn't do _shit_!"  
  
" _Sera_." Cullen unfolds his hands, spreading one palm to his right, and pointedly rests his weight on one side of the desk. It wobbles and clunks - a strangely loud sound in the empty room. A few of the soldiers at the edges of the room - doing reports, delivering things, otherwise waiting on Cullen - wince a little. Cullen raises an eyebrow.  
  
"So your desk is as ancient and sad as the rest of the castle. Not my fault. I mean - that thing was here when we set up. It's older than all of us combined. 'Course it's gonna wobble."  
  
"It didn't wobble when we first got here." Cullen says. "And there isn't anyone else I'd know who'd tamper with the legs of my desk. There are more obvious things to meddle with in this office if a person wanted to cause harm. I heard about what you did to Josephine and Solas told Leliana he heard someone in her rookery."  
  
"Tattle." Sera mutters.  
  
Cullen raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Inquisitor did it." Sera says. "All her. She's a terrible influence, that one. Should keep her locked up or something - away from impressionable young people like me."  
  
"You're the same age."  
  
"Impressionable _young_ folk, like _me_." Sera repeats. "I'm going now."  
  
Cullen sighs. "Just do me a favor and don't go after Cassandra?"  
  
"I don't know what you mean."


	176. Chapter 176

“So. Elf-shit causes weird, crazy elf fights.” Sera says and Lavellan’s eyes snap from Sera’s face across the room to Bull and the Chargers, finding Dalish. Lavellan feels something bitter-black curling in her veins. Sera shouldn’t know. No one should know.

The things that are said in the dark are meant to stay there.

The things that are said between souls are meant to stay there.

They are not for you. They are not for _any_ of you, Lavellan thinks and her eyes slide to Sera and she can’t help how the bitter-black expands and takes her over. This is the one thing they will never take from her. She will die before they take this from her. It is hers, forever.

“Don’t.” Lavellan says, and she can’t fit all the emotion, how much she doesn’t want Sera to say anything – Sera who disrespects and looks down on and casts aside everything Dalish, everything her, everything part of her at every turn and breath. She doesn’t want to hate Sera. She likes Sera. Sera is her friend. And Lavellan can deal with Sera mocking her life any time, any day. But not with this. Not with this. Never with this.

Lavellan would kill a great many people when it comes to this without regret. With _joy_.

But she can tell Sera is still going to talk, because Sera wouldn’t be Sera otherwise so Lavellan forces herself to move. To go, to get away.

If she doesn’t hear Sera say anything she can’t get mad. She won’t be bound to respond.

She forces the chair to screech, loud enough that it sets her own teeth on edge and she walks out of the tavern and every footfall is almost grounding to the bitter-black that snarls and tells her to turn around and break every bone in Sera’s body for even _daring_.

 _I am not that person_ , Lavellan thinks. Not yet, at least. Not yet.

Lavellan breathes when she rounds the corner of the tavern, sinking behind some bushes with her knees up against her chest like that can keep the bitter-black from spreading out of her. Her hands flex, and static gathers, she tries to shake it off her fingers.

She hears the rustle, and a soft sound – a sigh and a wash of mana.

“I said don’t tell.” Lavellan says and Dalish’s eyes are like mirrors, diluted and dull. The same bitter-black, but lighter because Dalish could never know. No one can ever know.

The bitterness _beyond words_. Beyond shape. Beyond thought.

(The bitter-black of her own _soul_.)

“I didn’t.” Dalish says. “Someone else might have. And you know Sera, she’s good at listening even when she runs her mouth. Be appeased, she said nothing. Your honor is not slighted. _She does not know_.”

“No one knows.” Lavellan says, and digs her hands into the dirt before she electrocutes everyone in the vicinity by accident. Lavellan breathes hard and Dalish is quiet.

Even if Lavellan wanted to talk – there are no words. For the insult. The attack from behind. The betrayal. The _hurt_. The _rage_. The sheer blind-building _wrath_ and _pride_ that swells up inside like something worse than a storm.

“She does not know.” Dalish repeats. “Da’len.”

Lavellan looks up and feels the ragged sigh dragged out of her. The slight recession of the bitter-black.

Words keep slipping from her grasp. She can’t say anything. Word-bound, word-lost.

Lavellan’s fingers curl into the cold dirt and maybe Dalish understands because she sits and she starts to hum the beginning of the story of the twins and their separation. It twangs at something deep inside, but Dalish keeps going. Her voice is melodious, soothing. Lavellan sometimes wonders if Dalish was a keeper of songs in her clan. She always forgets to ask when they are alone.

Lavellan closes her eyes and focuses on the bitter-black, and locking it away. This is not the place. Not the time.

-

Cole and Lavellan are watching the tanners at work, peacefully waiting. Cole points and Lavellan goes to watch the gut string be made.

“Now that they’re reasonably distracted for the time being,” Cullen says, turning away as Cassandra leads the way outside. “Is she well?”

“No.” Cassandra replies, immediately. “She is not well. I do not think she will ever be well.”

“It was that bad?”

“You saw it. It was not. It was worse.” Cassandra’s lips press into a fine line, almost disappearing off her face. “She is strong. She will recover from this. But it does not mean she will be well.”

Cullen understands.

Lavellan had mostly returned to herself by the time they had reached Skyhold, but he still remembers the intensity of her silence right after Adamant. The hunted look in her eyes. Her words to him echo and his words to her fade. Everything is up in the air, right now. A thousand different things that someone is juggling, and it might not be her any longer. Cullen doesn’t know who’s in control and how long they will be.

He can only hope that when it all comes down – at it will – that it settles gently. A crack without a shatter.

“Should we let her go?” Cullen asks, because sometimes letting them out into the field when they’re like this can be worse than keeping them cooped up.

“I do not know.” Cassandra says after a short pause. “It would be good to get her away from here. Somewhere she can be distracted. But at the same time I am not sure. I do not know what she will do. How she will be without so many eyes watching over her.”

“You mean watching her.” Because there is a difference. People want to see how she cracks under pressure. They want to know what it takes to break the Inquisitor of Thedas.

“She’s in control here. But out there,” Cassandra jerks her chin towards the gates, “Out there we cannot be so sure. It’s easier to slip the gaze of a handful of people looking for danger from every side than an entire castle focused solely on you.”

Cullen breathes in deep, cold air, and exhales hot. He rubs a hand across his face, tired beyond  belief.

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen exhales, “Just when we think it’s coming together.”

“Some faith, Commander. We haven’t lost her yet.” Cassandra reminds him. “We haven’t lost yet.”


	177. Chapter 177

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers

“And where have you been?” Varric asks and Lavellan shrugs a shoulder, elegant as she looks around -

“You have a throne.” She says eventually. “Do you get to change what it looks like?”

“Nah, it comes with the place.” Varric answers, “You want to sit in it?”

“No.” Her lips flash into a quick smile. “That’s alright. Thank you. Did they have to make it different for you? It looks big.”

“I admit the first few times getting up on that thing were a little awkward all around. There’s a crown, too.”

“That I did not have.” Lavellan says, “I’m not sure if that makes me happy or not. Varric?”

“Yeah, Poppy?”

“Why don’t you wear your crown?”

“Because it practically screams _shoot me, I’m important and rich_.”

“You are important and rich.” Lavellan says, looking around some more,going over to inspect something on a wall. “I was at Stone-Bear Hold. It’s nice there. Sometimes I wanted to stay forever. I learned a lot from the augur. I like learning. They have such an interesting perspective on life. It’s so simple there.”

There’s a wealth of words that she isn’t saying. It reminds her of home, simple like her clan used to be,she learned so much from Solas, the augur reminds her of her teachers in the Inquisition, it was like being normal again. Varric knows this because he can read between the lines and because he likes to think he knows enough about Lavellan’s lines to read all sorts of things there. Whether she wants him to or not.

“I thought I saw him.” She says, softly, to the stone. “It was a trick of light. You know how the Avaar dress – I thought. I just _thought_. I reached with my left.”

Lavellan’s right hand flexes. From what de Fer told the Seeker, who then passed the word on to Leliana, who of course keeps the rest of them in touch, Lavellan’s mostly gotten the hang of fighting with one hand. Casting and staffwork and all the other stuff she used to do with two, she does with one, now.

“Sometimes I almost feel it.” She says. “And it almost feels like it’s calling me home.”

Her eyes are dark and wide when she turns to look at him.

“I don’t know where that is. But something inside of me – something that I don’t know. Sometimes I feel it waking up. It’s like the anchor, but deeper than that. It’s not a physical pain like the anchor was. It’s some sort of hearth-sickness. Calling me home but I can’t follow it because I don’t know where it’s trying to take me. Not to the Free Marches or Wycome or Haven or Skyhold. None of those places. Somewhere else. And then the feeling goes away for a while and I think that maybe I made it up. Then it comes back and it hits me so hard that I can’t even speak.”

Lavellan looks away, out a window. Dazed.

“Sometimes I wanted to stay with the Avaar forever. Away from all of you because when I’m with you I want to talk and say things to make you feel better and I want to be a person with two arms and the person in Skyhold again and sometimes thinking about all of you makes the hurt too real. Makes everything too real.”

“But you’re here.” Varric says, walking to stand by her, taking her hand in one of his. “You came.”

“Thane Sun-hair told me that no matter what happens or happened, I still am Inquisitor First-Thaw.” Lavellan squeezes his hand in hers. “God-killer and warrior. It’s part of me. And she was right. I can’t stop, even if I want to.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Varric?”

“Yes?”

“Will you take me on a tour of Kirkwall? I missed one of the guided tours coming in by half an hour and I didn’t want to wait for the next one.”

-

“Why does the Seeker look like she got hit in the face by a giant fish?” Varric asks and Bull hums.

“Probably because she got hit on by the elf.” Bull replies. “The one that tricked the boss and pissed off the spymaster.”

“You know, he looks kind of familiar.” Varric says and they both watch out the window as the Seeker drops her training sword mid-strike, lets out a strangled snarl, and punches the dummy in the face, repeatedly. “I didn’t think that she could get angrier.”

“You never tried to hit on her.”

“And you have?”

“Not in a way that pisses her off, no.” Bull replies. “I think he went off to go find Cullen, next.”

“Does the man have no bounds?”

“Not that I’ve seen so far.” Bull shrugs. “Personally, I’m waiting for him to get around to Solas.”

Varric sighs. “Do you think all of the spymaster’s friends are like this?”

“They ended the Fifth Blight in under a year.” Bull points out. “How do you think they did it? By being moderate? Makes you wonder what the Warden Commander was like if all of her friends are like this.”

“There’s gotta be at least one normal person among that group. You can’t have that many crazies going around together without one normal person.”

“My money goes on the dog being the normal one.”

-

“So how does this work, exactly?” Sera asks as Bull finishes tying off the rope around his waist. Lavellan was interested for all of five minutes of him tying an increasingly complex harness around her torso before she found a patch of sunlight and a beetle.

“It’s a leash.” Bull says. “It’s not that hard to figure out. And I’m the biggest and heaviest thing we’ve got that’s mobile and with a semi-reasonable thought process.”

“Are you heavier than a stag?” Blackwall asks and Bull grunts.

“Bulls over stags. One has more beef than the other.” Skinner says.

“This isn’t going to work.” Solas says, and Sera doesn’t even know why he’s _here_.

“Well. That’s why this is a test run.” Bull says. “Alright, boss. I’m done. You can go do whatever, now.”

Lavellan turns around with five – which four more than originally stated – beetles in her hands.

“This tickles.” She says. “The beetles, not the rope. Sera, would you like a beetle?”

“Ugh. No.” Sera retreats for the tavern. “I’m going to watch from a distance. That way I’m safe and out of the disaster zone. Also that way I can laugh as loud as I want.”

“I don’t know how you got this approved.” Blackwall says, “But I have a hard time imagining your arguments for it.”

“Cullen took the most convincing.” Bull says. “I think the spymaster only said yes to see how bad it’d go if I failed. That and I think she’s getting bored of the normal Skyhold gossip and shit.”

They watch as Lavellan meanders around the courtyard, the length of rope slowly unspooling before she goes to climb a wall.

“This isn’t going to go well.” Solas repeats, shaking his head. Various soldiers and visitors look on, stepping over and ducking under the rope as it slowly grows taught.

They watch as she continues her climb, almost reaching the bridge to the rotunda before the rope loses all its slack.

Lavellan attempts to climb further.

Bull moves until he’s standing right under her. Lavellan continues to try and pull herself up. She looks down.

“Bull climb up with me.” She says.

“Not on your life.” Bull replies. “Get down.”

This far away, Bull can’t read her face, but really he should have known better.


	178. Chapter 178

“When I go back to Tevinter, they’ll ask me what it was like in the Inquisition. I’ll tell them, _the Inquisitor has cold feet_. Oh, they’d practically _die_ with curiosity over how I know that. Considering my _proclivities_ and all. But it would all be so worth it to see their _faces_.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t leading with _the Inquisitor’s tits are nice_.” Sera says. “Or, _she looks smaller naked_.”

Dorian coughs on his wine, laughing, “Oh, someone would _shit themselves_. I have to do it.”

“Will this make the Inquisition more enemies or less, I wonder?” Varric says, dealing out another round of cards, “Alright, place your bets.”

“Bets on the cards or bets on who’s going to shit themselves?” Sera asks.

“You don’t even know the nobles in Tevinter.” Dorian says, “You wouldn’t know how to bet on.”

“I can find a Jenny who does.” Sera says, “Bet you I could.”

“I’m not betting anything on your _Jennies_.” Dorian sniffs, “Also, I’m not playing this round. I need to sober up in time for Josephine to get here so I can watch her wipe this disgustingly sticky tavern floor with all of you. It’s good for the ego.”

“How so?”

“Because it’s always nice to see someone who isn’t me getting beaten by that woman.” Dorian explains, leaning back in his chair, “Do tell, how ever did you convince the good Commander to come back after his last defeat?”

“Don’t look at me. It was actually Leliana who got him to come back. I don’t think she got enough blackmail the first time around.” Varric says.

“Scary, that one. Pretty, but scary.” Sera says, tapping the edges of her cards on the table. “Makes you wonder.”

“About?”

“Things.”

“Very specific.” Varric says, “Grim? You in?”

Grim shrugs, staring at his cards.

“So articulate.” Dorian says.

Grim grunts.

“Anything you want to say about the Spymaster and things?” Varric asks.

Grim raises a hand and waves it before pushing two silvers and a gold into the center of the table.

“I fold.” Sera says, immediately. “Never bet against the quiet ones.”

-

“How was your day?” Cullen asks as Lavellan throws herself into the chair next to him, looking slightly frazzled and a lot dazed.

“Alright.” She says, “Killed some men. A few women. A bear.” She stares into the candles of the chandelier. “Dogs attacked me.”

Cullen looks around her to Blackwall who shakes his head.

So Cullen hands her the breadbasket and says nothing about it.

Lavellan holds the basket in her hands as she continues to stare at candles. Blackwall takes two piece of bread out and puts it on her plate before taking the basket for himself.

As Vivienne passes behind them to sit next to Josephine she pushes her hands down on Lavellan’s shoulders so that her hands lower to her plate. Cassandra sits next to Cullen.

“Bears.” She says, hands flexing before she takes a pitcher of water and starts pouring into her glass. “I will never understand how Ferelden did not adopt _bears_ as their animal instead of dogs.”

Cullen doesn’t need Blackwall to tell him not to say a word, so he passes the butter to her. He wonders if he should even bother talking to Varric or Dorian, or if he’ll just get more of this.

Cullen wordlessly places a bowl of broth near Lavellan’s hands and starts on his own dinner. Keep your head down. This is something he’s strangely learned and adopted into his survival skills as a valid tactic.

Lavellan starts eating, looking morose.

“I’m sorry dogs.” She says, staring into the depths of her bowl. “Cullen, does your Maker have a place for dogs?”

“Yes.” Cullen says. “Andraste’s mabari joined her at the Maker’s side.”

Cassandra snorts. “They only say that in Ferelden.”

Lavellan makes a sad and distressed sound.

“You were in Ferelden when it happened.”

Lavellan perks up a little.

“They were probably good dogs.” Lavellan says, starting to eat her bread with enthusiasm. “Why don’t I have a dog?”

“We’re working on it.” Varric says as he passes, and the table moves a little when Cassandra instinctively tries to kick out at him. Varric grins as he walks towards his table with Sera and Dorian.

“No, we are _not_.” Cassandra says.

“We aren’t?”

Cullen sighs and wonders how he always gets seated in the middle of these things.

“Such is fate.” Lavellan sighs, and puts her head down next to her plate.

-

“You are _drunk_.” Dorian says, literally holding Lavellan’s head up and turning her so she can look around. “Why would you do this. Look at your _choices_.”

“Dorian your hands are warm.” Lavellan says.

“Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fall asleep. Not while I am literally holding your head up for you. _Do not fall asleep on me, Lavellan_. Krem, a little assistance would be welcome. Don’t just _stand there drinking_.”

“You look like you have this.” Krem replies. “I don’t want to butt in.”

Dorian swears – low and fast before he turns to where he last saw Cullen.

“You! Don’t you have a sense of duty or something? Chivalry? I don’t know what you call it.”

“A little busy, Dorian.” Cullen says, in between Cassandra and Bull. “Cassandra, _please_. You have to _work_ tomorrow. Bull – you know this, Bull you have training – “

Dorian looks around for help from _literally anyone_. He would take any help right now. Even Mother Giselle’s. De Fer’s. _Anyone’s_.

Dorian cannot hold her face up _and_ carry her at the same time.

He could, in theory, let her face go.

She would then break her face falling.

“Krem.” Dorian repeats. “Your country needs you. Your countrymen need you.”

“Venatori?”

“ _Don’t be thick_.”

Krem snorts, getting up, slow as you please, and ambling over.

Just watching them.

Then in one fluid move he sweeps Lavellan up into his arms like some sort of romance novel character and starts carrying her out of the tavern.

“Ridiculous.” Dorian mutters, taking Krem’s bottle because he deserves something good for putting up with all of this. “Absolutely ridiculous.”


	179. Chapter 179

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

Sometimes she wakes up not-screaming, just denying and afraid, voice half-slurred with remembered pain and terror -  
  
"No," She says, sound dragged out of the bottoms of her, scraped from the rawest parts, " _No_. No, no, no, _no, no."_  
  
She wakes up, clawing at the stump that's still raw and healing - unclean, puckered and sensitive. Weeping.  
  
Bull is with her for this. He stays with her because he is the only one -  
  
"Bull doesn't _lie_." Lavellan says, quiet and still and drained to the most pure and distilled dregs of herself. "He doesn't lie."  
  
Her cut was messy. Magic and half-cauterized, half, not. Bloody and messy and they had to open it again when they got her back. Open it again and cut more off, until all the green was gone, until they could sew-burn it together nice and neat and _pretty_.  
  
Bull holds her to his chest, gentle and firm in the way he takes her hand and fits his fingers into hers.  
  
"It's not there anymore." Bull says, low and factual and calm as she writhes and tries to break free.  
  
"No." She moans, "No, _no_ , no."  
  
"No." Bull agrees, arm around her waist. "Kadan. It's gone, kadan. Look. _Look_ at it."  
  
And he sits there and confirms it for her with the one eye between the three of them she trusts as she quiets, breathing heavy, head lolling onto her shoulder to stare at the bandaged stump.  
  
"No." She whispers, "No?"  
  
"No." Bull says. and raises the hand around her waist to gently cup the air around the stump - not touching. "See? _No_."  
  
Her hand flexes around his fingers, little nails and little bones and the barest crackle of magic over his skin. Gentle. Probing. Curious.  
  
Like this is _new_ to her, every time she wakes up.  
  
" _No_." She repeats, slowly relaxing - sweat cooling, heart slowing - against him. "It's gone?"  
  
"Yes." Bull says, folding and tucking her into him. As safe as he can make it when the danger is inside.  
  
"We match." She says, sometimes, half-laughing and Bull extends his fingers, the remains of them and hums.  
  
"I don't suggest losing an eye, though. It's a bitch to depth perception." Bull will sometimes respond.  
  
But more often than not, Lavellan will rest her cheek on his chest, but still look at the stump, one eye closed, one eye open. The entire side with the stump locked up and seizing in the memories of death as the other side tries to hold itself together.  
  
Body shivering with remembered pain. An animal that's been conditioned.  
  
Bull holds her, a cage of flesh to remind her that cages are breakable.  
  
"No." Lavellan whispers, so quietly her voice could break hearts. " _No_?"  
  
"No." Bull will repeat as many times as she needs. "No. Kadan."  
  
And then smaller, so small it could set the world on fire, " _Hahren_?"  
  
And Bull will say in a voice that is the Qun-Hissrad-a number-Iron-himself.  
  
" _No_."  
  
And then, quietly, without a whisper, that is when she turns her head away from the empty air, both eyes closing, both sides of her body relaxing, and sleeps.  
  
-  
  
This is love at its finest, purest. Its best.  
  
This is love at its rawest, ugliest. Its worst.  
  
This is love and all its forms.  
  
Solas cannot help her any longer. It is - he would think of other lives and other times. He can imagine them, dream them, all he wants. But the facts remain.  
  
"We are running out of time." He thinks and this is love at its most dangerous, most painful.  
  
"If we took the pieces, maybe we could put it back together." She hedges. And this is not one of the wooden puzzle boxes he had made for her, this is not a jig-saw game given to her by de Fer, it's not a game of words for her to pick through. No.  
  
"It would not be the same." He tells her, holding the pieces of their legacy in his hands. It would have been _yours_ , da'len, he thinks. It could have been _yours_.  
  
The truth wants to be released, such is the nature of the truth. Lies are flimsy. The truth is heavy and real and solid in ways that tear through everything. The veil was always meant to tear, in time. He just thought he would be around to fix it.  
  
Lavellan looks confused, tired and blood-smeared, wobbly on her feet. Magical exhaustion. But otherwise she is well.  
  
She has grown so much - and part of it is his own magic woven through hers. Though she does not know it. Not yet.  
  
It will kill her, Solas thinks. He is going to _kill_ her.

(It seems fitting. What has he loved that he has not killed? Does this not simply continue the established law?)  
  
But he does not think he could bear to watch.  
  
Does he not owe it to his most precious and favored student to - to at least follow her example, then? To carry out what she has begun?  
  
Da'len, Solas thinks, you have shook the world to its foundations in ways not even the evanuris could ever dream of doing.  
  
He is certain that if he told her now, the truth and the lies and the reality of his sins, she would accept it. Then she would move on and away.  
  
Cole's voice in his head, urges him to tell her.  
  
No.  
  
Solas etches her face into his memory. Imagines her as one of the people, his people - at their truest, finest, purest, _most noble_ - , never aging and eternal. Blessed. _Exalted_.  
  
He imagines her face without her vallaslin.  
  
Solas resists the urge to hold out his hands for her. She would take these hands, he knows. Unquestionably. Unquestioning.  
  
This is love at its most unbearable.  
  
Cassandra calls, and Lavellan turns. In that moment, he slips through the Fade, dredging up what little and minor tricks he has left available in his arsenal as The Wolf. He touches her cheek for the briefest moment, time slowed so that he could give her his own private goodbye. Better in the long run, most likely. Selfish? Definitely.  
  
"Ar lath ma, da'len." He tells her because she won't know, will not know what he says in the moments between seconds. And he touches his hand to her anchor, giving her as much of himself as he can afford -  
  
More selfishness. To keep her going, to keep her going on stolen and borrowed time when he knows that she will die for him. Because of him. He can't keep her alive forever.  
  
He should have told her that she will die.  
  
It would hurt her less if she did not know, though, he thinks. And that is how he excuses his cowardice.  
  
Solas imagines the ways he could fix this, fix her. And he sees how they would all fail.  
  
She is an unstoppable force. And she would stop him before he could truly begin.  
  
Regret and love and guilt and anger and sorrow all together in one.  
  
"Forgive me." Solas says as he disappears into the spaces between to begin the next stage, "Forgive me, I do it for you."


	180. Chapter 180

"No. No. I refuse. I will not stand for this." Cullen says and Varric immediately turns to Lavellan and says -  
  
"Figure of speech, he doesn't mean he wants to sit down."  
  
Lavellan's mouth makes a small _oh_ , and her hand stops half-way towards a chair.  
  
"You are not fighting _three_ high dragons in a row." He says and turns to Cassandra, "You would have _let_ her fight three high dragons in a row? Why?"  
  
"Do you want to try stopping her?" Cassandra replies, crossing her arms and widening her stance a little. "Go ahead. I will watch, and then I will say I told you so when you end up with your inevitable headache for attempting to reason with her. At this point it is easier to go along with her choices and make sure she is not killed because of them rather than persuading her otherwise."  
  
"You just want to fight dragons. You think dragon fights are _romantic_." Cullen replies.  
  
"I do _not_." Cassandra snaps, and Lavellan turns to Varric.  
  
"Are they talking about me?"  
  
Varric hums, "They were, but now I think they're going to be talking about each other. Let's go and leave mommy and daddy to their fight, shall we?"  
  
"Varric!" The two snap, both turning a furious red as they round on him.  
  
"Uncle Varric is going to take the kid away before she gets scarred for life seeing her two parental figures duke it out. No one wants to see daddy hit mommy." Varric replies.  
  
Cullen sputters -  
  
"Never said _who_ was the mommy." Varric tacks on, "And the Seeker doesn't pull her punches. Watch out for that."  
  
Both Cassandra and Cullen are now stuttering and protesting in between attempting to argue with each other and calling Varric back, and Varric gently pushes Lavellan towards the door -  
  
"I don't know how I always get involved in this shit."  
  
"Maybe you should write a book about it." Lavellan says. "I'm still going to fight three high dragons."  
  
"Yeah, I figured." Varric sighs.  
  
"You want to come along?" Lavellan asks, "Because Sera says she's only going to fight one and that's whichever one breathes fire. Cole doesn't like the Emprise."  
  
"Maybe. Let's just wait for Curly and the Seeker to figure shit out first."  
  
-  
  
Lavellan's spent the past hour or so trying to goad one of her newly acquired battle nugs into playing with her. The nugs seem mostly interested in chewing, sniffing the ground, and lying on their sides.  
  
"No fun." Lavellan mutters and Blackwall snorts.  
  
"They're giant nugs. Who said they'd be fun? I think it's time for you to go, Inquisitor. You said you had a meeting."  
  
"I do, don't I?" Lavellan says, still crouching at eye level with the nug on the floor. She touches the nug's nose with her finger. "I'm sure you're incredibly fun when you get into the mood. What games do you play?"  
  
The nug sniffs her finger, then rolls onto its side and promptly goes to sleep with a soft little snort.  
  
Lavellan sighs, chin in her hands as she watches the thing. Ugly bastards, if you ask Blackwall. But no one asked him and if people were asking him then he would have most likely put his foot down back in Haven with the giant undead monstrosity that he's now been assigned for riding because the Inquisitor thinks it looks like him.  
  
He doesn't know how Dennet does this. The man doesn't even complain.  
  
It probably helps that Dennet does not sleep in the barn with his charges.  
  
Those shits get up to things at night, Blackwall swears. They're holding their own council or something.  
  
"Shall I escort you, my lady?" Blackwall asks and Lavellan sighs.  
  
"Could you pretend to escort me and sneak me into a battlement to hide?"  
  
"I could. I _won't_."  
  
"Then no." Lavellan says, slowly rising to her feet. "Can you ride a lion?"  
  
"No." Blackwall replies, immediately, because the Seeker is already pissed about the griffons - though it did get her talking to him again, he supposes.  
  
"Oh. Shame. They look fun." Lavellan replies and Blackwall wants to know where she saw a lion that wasn't just a tapestry - "I'll talk to you later, Blackwall. Goodbye."  
  
She pets the sleeping nug on the nose, wipes her hands on her pants - leaving suspiciously dark stains on her thighs - and trots off in the general direction of the castle.  
  
Whether she actually makes it or not is anyone's guess.  
  
-  
  
"Please, no." Cullen says, "I said please. I also said no. This should count for something."  
  
"Somewhere that is not here, it does count for something." Varric says, "But as it is, the Inquisitor requests your presence and who are we mere mortal men to say no to her?"  
  
"I'm busy. I'm rather tired. I think I might sleep early." Cullen says, rattling off a list of excuses that might possibly get him out of another game of Wicked Grace. A game of Wicked Grace involving Zevran. Leliana, and Morrigan.  
  
Thank the Maker that Surana and Alistair aren't there as well.  
  
Cullen can only take so much at once, and it was _so much_  already with Leliana, adding Morrigan and Zevran to the mix has practically pushed him over the proverbial ledge.  
  
"Nice try." Varric says. "Normally, I'd let you go."  
  
Cullen snorts.  
  
"And just for that I'm not going to warn you about the back up she sent me with."  
  
Cullen groans and Varric opens the southern door with a slight flourish.  
  
"Commander." Dorian says, leaning against the door frame, "The lady Inquisitor requests your presence and who am I to deny her when she's going to be making Josephine bring out the good vintages? I got desperate enough to try some of the dubious bottles in the cellar. Never again, I tell you."  
  
" _You're_ the back up." Cullen says.  
  
"Varric is the _prologue_. I am the _main event_." Dorian replies, "Also, I'm terribly invested in seeing you go because - aside from the good vintages, did I mention the good vintages? - I'm running out of things to use as distractions at the chessboard and I'm not ashamed to admit that's part of my tactical advantage. Something needs to disrupt your awfully strong concentration and unfortunately it isn't my good looks and charming demeanor."  
  
"I think I really _am_ getting a headache." Cullen says.  
  
Dorian clicks his tongue. "And if the prologue and main event weren't enough to get you going, Lavellan sent along an epilogue."  
  
Dorian strides across his office and throws opens the north door of Cullen's tower.  
  
"Hey." Bull says. "So am I carrying you over, or are you gonna save some of that dignity?"


	181. Chapter 181

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

"I don't think she enjoys the opera." Josehpine says when she finds Dorian among the crowd outside of Halamshiral. He smiles at her, brief and warm - _relieved_ \- before it gets covered by surprise and delight.  
  
"You got her to sit still for an entire _opera_?" Dorian barks out a laugh, the corners of his eyes folding as he claps his hands together. "Absolutely _marvelous._ What sort of miracles have you been working while I was away? Tell me - did you somehow manage to teach her the violin as well? Sculpting? Poetry? Is our Inquisitor becoming a well rounded lady of court like we've always _dreamed_? Oh, they grow up so fast. Heathen barbarians eating snow and chasing nugs one day, sitting in for operas the next."  
  
Josephine laughs. "Somehow I thought that being in Tevinter would slow you down. I don't know why. But it appears it hasn't. If anything, you've sped up."  
  
"Oh, as if I could talk like this in Tevinter. No one can keep up." Dorian waves a hand, "It's dreadful, really. The south has terrible culture, but the south also has people with actual brains rattling around their heads. Instead of whatever sort of fermented lump of flesh that some of my countrymen have. The people I had to _talk_ to. Why is it that all the people with passable intellect and entertaining wit aren't in any high ranking positions? After all of this is done, do you think I could borrow you and steal you away to Tevinter? I promise I'll return you whole. Mostly."  
  
"Perhaps." Josephine says.  
  
"You always did want to travel." Dorian points out. "Back to the opera?"  
  
"I do not think she appreciates it." Josephine says. "I took her to see one last night, and she looked alarmed."  
  
"Did she _say_ she was alarmed?"  
  
"No. She said she was happy that I was happy."  
  
Dorian looks incredibly fond as he sighs, crossing his arms. "I guess she is learning to be diplomatic after all. Was it an _Orlesian_ opera?"  
  
"We're _in_ Orlais."  
  
"Well yes, but there are more operas than just Orlesian ones." Dorian says. " _Was_ it?"  
  
"Of course!"  
  
Dorian snorts, "Well then no wonder she looked alarmed. Orlesian operas are bloodbaths disguised with screeching, canons, different colored stained glass lamps, and silk. Oh, Ambassador, you might just have scared her off from operas for the rest of her life. You couldn't have started her on something tamer? Like a simple Free Marcher one? A Starkhaven didactic pastoral musical, perhaps? Tell me, have you told de Fer?"  
  
"I was on my way to speak with her now, actually. Until I saw you."  
  
"Excellent." Dorian offers her his arm. "I haven't seen the woman yet. I want to see her face when she sees me. I also want to see her face when you tell her about this."  
  
"One would almost think you missed her."  
  
" _Her_? _Psh_. Absolutely not. _Never_! Her sharp tongue and ability to write legible tessellation notes in a simple and precise manner without starting to wax poetic? Always."  
  
-  
  
This girl knows bodies. How to feed them, how _much_ to feed them - how _little_ you can feed them, what you can feed them and what you can't, what you should and what you shouldn't - clothe them, take care of them, heal them, preserve them, fix them, care for them. Make them disappear. Keep them where they should be. Put them back together and tear them apart.  
  
She knows bodies. Bull can tell that looking at her.  
  
It wasn't so obvious at first. All that fancy armor and clothing, all that careful work to keep her pretty well practiced Free Marcher accent over her natural Dalish one.  
  
It comes out later. It doesn't come out at Haven. Not really. Bull sees flashes of it at Haven. But he doesn't know her well enough yet. She doesn't trust him enough, yet.  
  
It's after Haven, _before_ Skyhold.  
  
Lavellan wanders into his tent, starts taking off her soggy clothes and he knows this isn't a sex thing. He knows because she's not interested and he knows this because sometimes Dalish - when she's feeling bad, when she misses something, when she _needs_ it - will do this too, Skinner, once or twice that he can remember being awake for.  
  
And then she digs underneath his blankets and sleeps, curled up small and shivering.  
  
He could mark to the week that she was living off of limited provisions on her bones. He could tell you the vague order of the scars he could see. The ones healed by amateur hands, the ones that are getting steadily better - the ones that are clearly healed by magic, the ones that aren't.  
  
Lavellan _knows_ bodies.  
  
He knew this, vaguely, in Haven when she ate snow and gutted hares and didn't leave a single scrap left -not even the bones were thrown out.  
  
He knew this, more certainly, before Skyhold, when she showed him her body and lay her head down by him, and he sees the flashes of scars and hunger and hurt on her skin. She showed it to him then, she showed it to him every moment since then, every time she came to him or did not come to him. Every time she spoke to Cole or Dorian or de Fer or Josephine. Every time she glanced at Cullen and every time she slipped through a crowd. Every battle, every fight, every negotiation and every conversation since, she's shown it to him.

But he did not  _know_.  
  
He knows this for certain, now.  
  
"Are you mad?" She asks, cold as she presses against his side, carefully fitting into the space he's left for her.  
  
"No." Bull says. "But you are."  
  
Sahrnia was a mess, start to finish.  
  
Lavellan is quiet, and her feet are freezing, pressed against his leg, her cheek is soft, pressed against his chest.  
  
"Yes." She says. "Not at her, not really."  
  
"You're mad because that's what she had to do. That the Red Templars got to her before anyone _else_ could've." Bull says, keeping his voice low, calming. "Because she didn't have a real choice and everyone else thinks she did."  
  
"She had to keep them alive." Lavellan says, pressing against his side like she could slip through the pores of his skin to get into his blood. "She had to keep them alive, no matter what."

Lavellan's words slip into elvhen, and she prays. Bull knows because he knows what prayer sounds like. Change the words, change the Gods, change the voice - all prayers sound the same.  
  
"Forgive me." She says, quietly, in common.  
  
Bull carefully squeezes her closer, close enough she breathes out soft and warm over his skin. Like mourning.  
  
This girl knows bodies. She knows them dead or alive.  
  
And she knows how much it costs to keep them.


	182. Chapter 182

"I do not think Briala likes me." Lavellan whispers as she passes the place where she knows Solas has been stationed to hide until the signal is ready. "I do not think she sees our causes as the same."  
  
"Are they?" Solas' voice whispers back, thrown and distorted by magic. Lavellan feels out the spell, and Solas loosens the weave of it to allow her to see the strands and the warp of them.  
  
Lavellan weaves her magic to copy his, careful and slowly pushing it at him. She feels his mana wash over her copy of the spell, testing and touching - pushing - at where she needs to adjust before retreating with a gentle hum of approval. Lavellan tightens the spell and projects her voice through it.  
  
"Yes. Aren't _all_ causes the same? The desire to be treated well, to not be hurt, to be safe? Why should what I want be different from what she wants?"  
  
"Perhaps it is because you are not a city elf."  
  
Lavellan digs her nails into her gloves, wishing she could take them off so she could just feel the pressure on her skin.  
  
"These are divisions that were made and enforced by _shems_."  
  
"Supported and enthusiastically perpetuated by the Dalish."  
  
"You say that like the elves in cities don't cling to the separation, either. We are not _others_." Lavellan squeezes her hands tight, tight, tighter. "We were once _one_ people. We are just, now, diverse. But we are still _one_ people. Why must we be so different? I am not exotic and I shouldn't be seen as such by someone like me. And she is not different. People are different for experiences, but there is no essential divide between us. We are not two _races_."  
  
Solas doesn't reply and for a moment Lavellan worries she dropped the spell and was just yelling into the corridor.  
  
A door opens to her side and Solas hand slips out, palm up.  
  
Lavellan takes off her glove and places her hand in his. His hand is warm, larger than hers, older.  
  
His thumb runs over her knuckles in one of his rare displays of affection.  
  
"Da'len." Solas sighs out loud. A wealth of words and meanings crammed into his single sigh.  
  
Lavellan squeezes his hand back, and closes her eyes to focus on the way he pushes his mana against hers. Slowly merging the two into a dawn and twilight between them. Neither him nor her, but shades and mixtures. So much love, so much anger, so much regret.  
  
"Right now your people need you." Solas says. "And right now your people are not _elves_."  
  
"I know." Lavellan says, at it makes her heart tired. It makes her heart ache. "I _know_."  
  
"Later." Solas says, pulling his mana from hers. Lavellan feels smaller and colder and more tired without him. She resists the urge to cling like a spoiled baby, though she wants to.  
  
Alone in Halamshiral.  
  
The Herald of Andraste.  
  
The irony will kill her someday, she knows.  
  
"Later." Solas says, and whispers something so soft that Lavellan only catches what might be enaste.  
  
-  
  
This is Lavellan. This is Lavellan knee-deep in swamp water fighting undead.  
  
This is not where she ever thought her life would take her, and she has half a thought to send a prayer to Sylaise for the thought of home.  
  
Lavellan would very much like to not be here at this moment in time, it is cold and it is _damp_. It smells of rot and the gas that always seems to come up from swamp waters.  
  
The undead are never ending and unforgiving, but Lavellan has to fish something she dropped out of the water and this may necessitate her going under.  
  
Lavellan is not looking forward to this.  
  
Lavellan doesn't know what she was thinking of when Josephine told her she had to go to the Forgotten Mire, but it was not this.  
  
Lavellan supposes that maybe she was thinking of trees. The swamps at the _Free Marches_ had trees.  
  
The swamps here have undead, Avaar who hate her, and rifts. It is distinctly  _not_ the Free Marches.  
  
"So. You going to get that?" Varric says and Lavellan sighs as she wades up to her waist in what feels like gruel. Black, sludgy, smelly gruel with things that might be moving in it.  
  
"Keep them off me." Lavellan says, and braces herself because this is not the worst thing she's ever had to do. _Probably_. She's sure that she's done worse things than this. She just can't remember them at the moment.  
  
Lavellan takes a moment to pray to anyone listening - Dread Wolf, too, of course - and brace herself before dunking herself into the swamp.  
  
The things she _does_.  
  
-  
  
"It would seem that I am most unwelcome."  
  
"I wouldn't say _that_. In those words. Exactly."  
  
The elf raises an eyebrow and snorts.  
  
"Then is this the welcome that Merrill would receive were she to come to this hold?" Fenris asks, "She wants to. She has heard of this Inquisitor, and seems excited to speak with her. Of what, I do not care to know."  
  
"Well that's different." Varric says. "Daisy's different."  
  
"Is it because she is the good kind of elf?" Fenris asks, "Or is it because she is not _me_?"  
  
"It helps that she isn't known for being a guy with a giant sword and strong violent tendencies." Varric replies. "You aren't here to throw our Inquisitor off the ramparts, are you?"  
  
"Is that why they sent you to meet me on the other end of the bridge before I could even make it to the gates?"  
  
"In all honesty, I think they're willing to set the bridge on fire if it means keeping you out."  
  
Fenris rolls his eyes. "There are worse things to get around than a single bridge on fire."  
  
"Yeah. I figured. So. Are you here to - uh. End the Inquisitor? Because if you are - I'm gonna have to take their side on this one, Broody. She's not so bad once you get to know her. She's kind of like Merrill."  
  
Fenris grimaces.  
  
"Alright. Bad example. Minus the blood magic."  
  
"That does not make the impression of her better." Fenris says. "Move, dwarf. I have a deadline. If I don't send a message to Aveline, she's going to march over here herself. I'd rather avoid that, if at all possible. I owe Donnic money and I'd rather not add that onto my debt."  
  
"Seriously. Are you going to kill her?"  
  
"You make me think that I'm going to have a hard time not killing her. I swear, though, that my intentions in coming here were not to kill the Inquisitor. Some Venatori, perhaps, yes. Some blood mages, yes. The Inquisitor, no."


	183. Chapter 183

“And you,” Cassandra rounds onto Varric, “What’s wrong with _you_?”

Sera is stubbornly glaring at the ceiling as she holds still for healers to tend to the large burn on the outside of her knee and down her right leg. Blackwall’s face looks to be entirely beard and bruise. Varric looks fine. And yet there he is, taking up precious space in their limited healer’s hut.

When Cassandra had walked in and saw this, she had immediately sought out the Herald to inquire as to her state of health – if Sera and Blackwall were in such shape it is hard to believe that Lavellan was not as bad or worse.

Lavellan was outside contemplating some rams in the distance. When asked the question Cassandra just asked Varric, she had pondered it for a moment before announcing -

“I have a glowing green light on my hand and it makes it hard to sleep at night because it glows bright through my eyelids. Also shemlen think I am the Herald of their Andraste and traditionally elves who get involved with your Chantry tend to be burned to death and erased from history or vilified. I do not want to be a villain, Cassandra. Or burned to death. Do you think it would hurt more to be burned to death or drowned?”

She was essentially fine. Cassandra found this out after about half an hour of attempting to ask her directly before deciding to just let her talk while Cassandra bodily looked her over.

The girl could probably give Varric a run for his money, where words are concerned.

“Aside from everything.” Cassandra says before Varric can say anything – and his mouth slowly closes as he raises an eyebrow.

“I’m very hurt right now, Seeker. I think you have just delivered a near fatal blow to my ego.”

“Finally.” Cassandra mutters.

“Also, I’m fine. Mostly.” Varric raises his arm, winces and lowers it again. “I’ll _be_ fine. The big guy sure is good for something, huh? Thanks for that, Hero.”

Blackwall grunts, slowly making his way to the door of the healer’s hut. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be lying down in the snow. The lass might be on to something, there.”

Cassandra sighs out through her teeth and wonders what she hoped would happen by coming back to the healer’s hut after finding the Herald hale and whole.

If Cassandra could convince the Herald to leave half of these people behind she would. In Cassandra’s opinion all Lavellan really needs is herself, Blackwall, and perhaps the Iron Bull. The rest of them seem suspicious and disrespectable.

There’s always de Fer, but Cassandra has the feeling that de Fer unnerves Lavellan just as much as she gets on Cassandra’s nerves. Cassandra can only stand being asked about her relatives in Nevarra and her thoughts on the _Game_ so many times before she gets more irritated about it all than usual.

-

Solas wakes to humming – magical and not. Humming around the wards, magic pressing lightly – glancing off of, really – against the weave of them. Shy of tearing and triggering them, but humming in resonance to them. Like a pair of hands held a hair’s breadth apart. The mana is familiar, welcome, warm, humming against his own. Young, gentle and soft, tasting almost like lemon cream or sweet red-purple berries bursting against the lips.

And then there is humming filtering through the sky. A young voice, happy and free. Pleased.

Solas lets himself return to full wakefulness, slowly, gradually and cherishing the notes of the humming, magical and not. Sensation and awareness, control and finesse of limbs – toes, feet, ankles, legs, fingertips, fingers, hands, wrists, arms, body. Slowly, carefully.

He slowly pulls the threads of the wards apart, letting them loosely fall and dissipate into the ambient mana around them. He feels her mana returning to her core, flecks of her mana chasing after the mana he allows to fade into the world.

Lavellan continues to hum, Solas keeps his eyes closed, but he pulls – softly, slightly – at her mana with his own. Silent permission.

He can feel the warmth of her, the push and brush, of her mana and her body when she sits close to him, her knee brushing against his hip.

Solas does not know the song she hums, if it is a song at all.

Solas opens his eyes and looks into the deep, dark night. Everything dark save for the faintest embers of the fire. Enough for their eyes. Enough for _her_ eyes, diminished and weakened as they are in comparison to his own.

He turns his head towards her.

“You will catch a chill.” He says, careful to keep his voice low.

“So will you.” She replies, and he feels her hand slide over the sleeping roll he’s lying on top off, fingertips against his calf before she takes her hand back. “Did you dream something?”

“No.” Solas says, “Not this time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was I meant to?”

Lavellan shrugs, “I was just curious. Dream me a story, hahren.”

“Perhaps I should have _you_ dream me a story.” Solas replies. “What woke you?”

“I didn’t sleep so I did not get woken.” Lavellan replies. “The stars are beautiful. The air is nice. And the crickets are charming. I like it here.”

The Hinterlands do have their charm, Solas supposes. Though the bears are something of an irritant.

Solas half wonders if Dirthamen really _did_ manage to create a society of bears after all and they’ve managed to carry on this entire time. Somehow he does not doubt it.

Dirthamen and Ghilan’nain were always _close_ with their secrets.

“You would not think that this is a place of war.” Lavellan says.

“No place appears to be a place of war at first.” Solas replies. “War is everywhere and nowhere at once.”

Lavellan nods, half-absent as she leans back, hands griping her ankles as she stares into the sky. “The people are nice, here, too. No one’s called me a knife-ear or anything.”

“They remember who saved them.” Solas says, slowly sitting up, their knees touching. “The Hero of Ferelden, now you.”

Lavellan shrugs. She is uncomfortable being compared to the heroes of her age. Solas understands.

As flattering as it was to be considered on the same level as Mythal – he still did not wish to be seen on _that level_ at all.

At the end of it, they are all just people, even when they are symbols. Flesh instead of perfection.

It is daunting to become what others think of you. Sometimes impossible.

“They save themselves.” Lavellan eventually says, nodding to herself before sliding onto her side and lying down next to his bedroll. Solas looks down at her and her eyes reflect the sky – black prisons and glittering stars. She does not look at him. “They save themselves.”


	184. Chapter 184

This, she thinks, is where Blackwall or Bull or Cullen or someone would yell at a soldier or recruit to _dig deep_ , keep their chin up.

But Lavellan is not a soldier, and she doesn’t think she’d be a very good one if she was, because she wants nothing more than to _sleep_.

It’s cold, and she knows it’s the snow and the hurt and the weakening of her core. She knows it’s all of those things – the loss and the fire and the avalanche and Haven and the dragon and Corypheus and the templars made of lyrium. It’s all of these things dragging her down, and it’s also the mark on her palm and the strange, new, violent way it pulses. Possessive and angry. Inflamed. The one hot thing in these mountains. A bitter sun embedded into her bones.

She prays through half-numb lips, more like cold whispers and whistles that she barely hears in her own head because it’s so full of loss and whiteness.

Lavellan can’t lift her legs very well anymore.

Or those eyes in the dark?

Templars or wolves?

 _Dread Wolf take you_ , Lavellan thinks at Corypheus. The Dread Wolf is good at taking gods away.

The Dread Wolf hunts the clan’s Firsts, and Lavellan doesn’t have her ring to keep her safe.

She gave it back to Keeper before she left for the Conclave. Her hand had felt naked without it, bare and exposed. _She_ felt exposed. Half-not Lavellan anymore.

She had passed it onto the Second. Just in case.

They all knew she might not be coming back.

Lavellan’s insides are too cold for twisting.

Is that glowing eyes in the dark? Is the wind a howl? A roar? A dragon coming down at her back? Another mountain? Lavellan feels tight with awareness. She could have died.

She was truly lucky. Mythal, Elgar’nan, Ghilan’nain, Falon’Din – she doesn’t know who to thank for that.

Lavellan prays to Mythal that the Inquisition is safe. She prays to Elgar’nan that she hurt Corypheus’ army as much as he hurt her people, and if not then she gets a chance at it. She prays to Ghilan’nain that she will rise to the demands set before her, and become worthy of what she must now do.

(Corypheus is her battle. She is not an usurper – she is not a gnat. She is no mistake. _Lavellan is only herself and no one can take this from her_.)

She prays to Falon’din because she is not yet ready to leave this world.

She prays to Dirthamen to shelter her with his ravens. To Sylaise that wherever her people now are that they can be sheltered and are well. To June that some sort of solution can be found.

To Andruil for a path.

To the Wolf for everything else.

Let me live. Let me hurt those who hurt me. Let me make it. Let me make this right. Let me survive this. Let me swallow this happening whole and make it part of my settling bones. _Let me walk in your footsteps of shadows, wear your cloak of tricks, let me hunt my enemy and circle my kin._

It is tempting to change faces here – become bear, become owl, become wolf. To become a wild thing once more and survive that way.

But she cannot think of herself as anything other than Lavellan on two legs, anchor in one hand, and wolf’s heart in her chest. Uncertain and trapped in this skin.

Lavellan breathes and she only knows she breathes because she is not yet dead.

Or if she is, this is not what she hoped it would be like.

“Fire? Warm?” Lavellan whispers, when she sees the eyes that were burning in the snow up close, ash. Is it warm? She does not know. She cannot tell.

But if this was here, and it is not yet covered in snow – then they must be onward.

Lavellan breathes in deep enough it hurts, digs deep for whatever is left inside, and prays to the Wolf to see her through this because of every god she has ever known the Wolf is the only one to remain among the his chosen people and see them and their fates through to the very end.

-

If this were another time, another age – when he was another self, – if many, many things had changed while somehow remaining the same, because he doubts that he would have met her under any other circumstances, known her, been with her, been changed by her, been made so aware of her -

She would have been his. He would have claimed her as his own, made her _first_ among those he gathered to himself, and those who came freely. He would have renamed her _Fen’aste_  – his gift, his treasure. Special and blessed.

And when he became _Fen’Harel_ rather than just the Wolf, he would have named her _Fen’Dami_ , the Wolf’s Sword, because she has always struck fast and quick and deep with words and actions and looks without need of anything or anyone else.

He holds her hand in his, watching the glowing echo of the Fade playing out on her palm, slender and young in his hands. He runs his thumb over the Venus mound of her hand, soft muscle and flesh and skin. She sleeps as Cole guides her away from nightmares and as he eases her pain. The drawing of her eyebrows.

Is this how Mythal, now Flemmeth, thinks when she looks into the faces of her many, innumerable daughters? This terrible, heavy, tired love?

The sorrow – that these daughters of theirs, their treasures and dear ones, could have had so much, and now must deal with so little? That they were born for the world and for magic and for dreams but are limited to this? Diminished and drawn apart, diluted and drained to these shadow-like imprints.

And the guilt. The heavy, heavy guilt that seems heavier for having known them than anything else.

It makes it hurt more, knowing her.

Solas presses his thumb to the center of the Anchor, feels it reaching for him. Does she realize that it is not because he is a mage and a dreamer that he is capable of soothing her mark? De Fer – Dorian, they would not be capable of this. Only he.

Her fingers slowly close around his, soft mutterings of something in the new and strange elvhen that the Dalish have somehow derived from a rough and distorted patchworks of the old tongue.

Solas brushes a hand over her hair.

It is selfish of him to think of her as thus. Precious and beloved.

Student is acceptable. Apprentice is fine. _Da’len_ is somewhat selfish on his part, but within the bounds of the appropriate.

Lethallin edges against that line, but he is the wolf and the wolf has always been ambitious and arrogant and over-reaching. So he reaches and takes that as his, though he should not. If she knew, he doubts she would allow him to claim that bond between them. Da’len and lethallin, both. Lethallin more, perhaps.

Ah, but the usurpation of _father_ , as well? Even Solas knows that goes too far.

Inappropriate and beyond any excuse. Selfish beyond measure.

He is amazed at how selfish it is, exactly. He supposes he can surprise even himself at times. He can imagine Mythal’s voice in his ear, laughing at how much he’s changed. How soft he’s become.

_Rescuing pups now, fen’falon?_

Solas conjures her face in his mind, and half replies – and you, with your innumerable hatchlings, creating a brood?

He wonders how she deals with letting them all go. She has been awake longer than he has. How has she dealt with losing them, one after another, to the passage of time that has yet to truly touch them?

Mythal, old friend, he thinks, I could certainly use some of your advice right now.


	185. Chapter 185

Solas takes her hands in his, later. Her lip throbs – painful and _good_ , because she was victorious. She proved herself. She is proud for the pain because she was not brought low, she did not fail and this at least she protected. This is all she has left of anything that was once herself.

He takes her hands in his and examines the broken skin of her knuckles because fights like that aren’t about finesse. They aren’t about who has the better stance, who can block, who knows how to use their weight. It isn’t about throwing or locking your opponent out. It’s not like when you spar. And Lavellan knows that shems fight differently than Dalish, and it’s not the same either way.

This was bare knuckles, teeth and everything _god ever gave them_ to prove themselves in the eyes of the world. This is Lavellan at her rawest, purest. Fists like bears, the feet of stags. Thighs like stags. Teeth like wolves. Nails like eagles. Palms like mountain cats. Heads and hearts of halla. This is Lavellan at her darkest and most natural. This is her.

Solas lightly touches the purple-red on the backs of her hands and it hurts and it will be hard to bandage them and wear her gloves, her staff work will be unwieldy for some time. But it’s worth it.

Lavellan forces herself not to smile and laugh like something wild and tangled and verdant.

His hands are cold – not chilled, not magic, just cold, or maybe her blood is just that hot?

He speaks low. “You have done your soul proud. Your honor remains untouched.”

Lavellan can’t find the words, her mouth is something teeth and fangs, snarling lips, hisses and howls in the back of her throat, and croons tucked in between her teeth. Her tongue is forked, narrow and flicking. Her lips are beaks and muzzles. She forces her hands to unfurl into something elven, something with fingers and thumbs.

Her heart pounds in her chest, heavy and loud. _Slow_. Big.

Solas holds her hands that are claws that are talons in one elf hand, and he takes her face in the other, slowly tilting her face in the candle light that blaze too bright for her animal and avian eyes.

“Come back. It is done.” Solas says and Lavellan lets out something half a croon, half a purr slip out of her throat. He strokes her cheek, just underneath the scratch – it stings – with his thumb. Gentle, but grounding. “Return to your flesh. The insult has passed. You are Inquisitor, here. You are needed _here_. The Inquisitor is needed.”

Yes, Lavellan thinks. The Inquisitor has words. The Inquisitor has the words to say how much it hurt to hear those accusations in her new clan, her new pack, her new herd’s hearth-rest. The Inquisitor has the words to say that she closed her claws around his weak, soft, white throat and it felt _good_ because she is _glorious and triumphant and exalted_. She is _power_ and she is raw nature and she is _more than herself_. She is two, she is one, she is divided, she is whole. The Inquisitor has the words for the way the wild hunt races in her blood and the way magic curls through her bones.

Lavellan breathes and feels her skin settling into something more woman than bear and raven and wolf and serpent.

Her hands slowly go flat, spreading out her fingers and feeling the joints ache, in Solas’ hand.

She looks into his eyes and sees the worry, the fierce pride, the sorrow, and the way he claims her as his kin in ways she misses because she has lost all the kin that had mattered and now she only has the Inquisition that could be clan but can never be clan because it’s all _gone_.

Lavellan breathes and searches for the words that left her in the farthest folds of her skin and crevices of her bones.

Solas drops his hand from her face to cover her hands in his.

“You didn’t tell?”

“The secret of the way is safe.” Solas replies. “It was wrong of him to accuse you in the open.”

“Yes.” And the bitter-black animal-beast inside of her croons, slit-eyed and pleased. _Yes_. But she fixed it. Where everyone could see.

“The accusation was serious.” Solas says, slowly, watching her. Feeling out the blackness of her waters. Lavellan lets him because she would claim him clan, too.

“The greatest sin.” Lavellan whispers. “The greatest wrong. The greatest taboo.”

Solas nods, “To double a soul.”

“A soul split is not made whole through bodies.” Lavellan whispers, voice dropping low, low, lower, venom - “A soul shared cannot make a new soul. That is the domain of Gods. We are not Gods.”

“No.” Solas says, something in his own eyes growing dark and painful, to match hers. “No. We are not.”

-

“What will you do when it’s all over?” Sera asks, gesturing out the window in the direction of the remains of the Breach. Lavellan shrugs.

“I’m going to go.” Lavellan says, picking at some dried fruit between them.

“Okay, yeah, where?” Sera says, pulling out a small knife to peel an apple.

“Away.” Lavellan says, simple and cryptic. Anyone else and Sera would think they were an ass. No. Not with her. With her, that’s just the way it is.

“Anywhere in specific.”

Lavellan shrugs again. “Just away. Not here. Somewhere the Chantry and Andraste can’t find me, I suppose.”

“You’d have to go pretty far.” Sera says. “I’m pretty sure Andraste is everywhere.”

“No.” Lavellan says, wistful and sad as she rolls a dried apricot between her fingers. “The Chantry is not everywhere.”

Sera could argue. She won’t. Not today.

Today is a _good day_.

Maybe Lavellan thinks that too, ‘cos she looks up at Sera – quick-like – and smiles – brighter. “And you?”

“Dunno.” Sera says. “Wherever I was before, I guess. Somewhere new? Jennies are needed everywhere. You could be one of those.”

“Maybe.” Lavellan replies.

“It’s fun. You get to travel and things.”

“I travel a lot already.”

“For not fighting things.” Sera snorts. “For fun things. Simple task, fun times. Nice scenery. Assholes gone.”

Lavellan rips the dried apricot in two.

“Maybe.” She repeats, holding out half of the thing to Sera. Sera takes it because it’s a _good day_ and they both turn to watch Bull and Cassandra go at it for their weekly spar.


	186. Chapter 186

“She was crying in the stables saying she had to protect them.” Blackwall says, “You can tell everyone to stop looking. I don’t think she’s going to be going anywhere. At least, not until she’s stopped crying.”

“ _What_?”

Blackwall shrugs.

Cullen turns to Dorian, as if _Dorian_ would know what that means.

“She wanted to protect the foals and whatnot.” Stitches says from behind Blackwall. Cullen waves him in, Blackwall stepping aside before shrugging again.

“I’m going to make sure she doesn’t do anything.” He says.

“She was crying because she couldn’t believe that we didn’t have guards for the foals and nuglets and various other baby mounts.” Stitches says, standing by the Commander’s desk as Cullen drags his fingers over his face and through his hair, whispering something that might be prayers or curses or something in between. “Then she started crying harder because she shouldn’t have drunk so much because now _she_ can’t protect them and she wants to know if this makes her a bad person.”

Rocky’s voice yells from somewhere down below, echoing up -

“She _got to the pups.”_

Cullen’s head hits his desk with a hollow thud.

Dorian wonders if this is a bad time to offer him a drink. Then he wonders if this is a good time for him to leave and go back to arguing with Josephine over de Fer’s decorating advice. Dorian doesn’t know much about interior decorating – his field of study was much more book oriented, and his understanding of politics deals more with flowers and letters and gossip – but he’ll be damned if he lets de Fer dictate their living quarters.

“She’s crying because she can’t hold them all and that means one or two of them might get hurt if she ever has to grab them and run.” Rocky yells. “She’s on the floor.”

“Dorian.” Cullen says.

“No.” Dorian replies because he’s not a sucker. Nor is he stupid or drunk enough for these – these _shenanigans_. “Send Bull. He deals with crazy drunkards all the time. Better yet, send Cassandra. She has quite the sobering presence.”

Cullen and Stitches just stare at him because – point. Cassandra’s presence may be sobering but since when did Lavellan’ follow such rules? For all they know, her drunken sobbing is infectious.

“Isn’t she supposed to be a sleepy drunk?” Dorian says.

“Not if you get her started on animals.” Stitches replies.

Both of them still looking at him.

“I humbly and regretfully regret not being regretful, decline.” Dorian says, turning around to walk back to the peace and relative sanctuary of the archives.

“Stitches.” The Commander says.

“Yessir.” Stitches says.

“Shit.” Dorian says and breaks out into a run because he’s absolutely one hundred percent certain he can out run Stitches. For fuck’s sake, if he can banter, throw spells, and still run faster than Bull and Cassandra, he can outrun Stitches.

-

Dorian swears to Andraste, the Maker, and anyone and everyone in between that he needs to get a barred door installed into every alcove in this archive. And a large, burning sign that says that this is a library and people should behave with appropriate conduct. Which means no screaming, no stomping, no _birds_ , no yelling, and no acts of violence that could endanger the books.

“Hello, Cassandra, how can I help you today?” Dorian says and wonders if whoever built this castle knew that someday he would be cornered in this exact spot and built the windows the exact size they are so they could taunt him with the possibility of escape, and also the impossibility of escape because his bones aren’t liquid.

“She’s asking about blood magic, Tevinter.” Cassandra says. And Dorian closes his eyes and prays for his end to be swift and painless.

“She wants to understand it.” Dorian says, because he apparently can’t stop running his mouth in the face of _death_. “The key to defeating an opponent is understanding your opponent. Isn’t that common knowledge? She doesn’t know much about blood magic, so she wants to know how it works so she can figure out weaknesses. So on and so forth. Tactics. It’s clever, really.”

Dorian was probably as surprised as anyone when Lavellan asked him about it because apparently Solas doesn’t know much and you should always ask the  most reliable source first.

“If she turns into a maleficar – “

Dorian refrains from pointing out that both the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall were known maleficars. Excused due to _extenuating circumstances_. Which Dorian thinks should apply here. If anyone has extenuating circumstances it’s Lavellan.

“Yes, yes, you’ll destroy me so utterly that my ashes won’t be existent. Please stop looming like that and take your clanking armor elsewhere.”

-

Bull sighs and tucks Cole under one arm and reaches out to drag Sera in with the other.

“C’mon.” He says, because these two aren’t going to make it without help. They’re small things, frail things. Bull sometimes doesn’t know how humans and elves made it this far, gotten into so many places when they’re so damn finicky. Sera’s teeth are locked with chattering and the Cole doesn’t know enough about being – not a full spirit, to recognize it when his physical form tells him it’s about to riot.

Blackwall’s got Lavellan at his back somewhere behind them and Bull swears that the next time Lavellan asks them to go climb a goddamned mountain he’s going to talk some sense into her about doing this kind of shit in the middle of heavy snowfall.

Sera presses against his side as he does his best to block them from wind and make it easier for them to follow, and Cole is a little stiff under his arm. Bull can almost imagine the little trail of confused and baffled thoughts the kid always gets whenever someone _does_ something for him.

Bull’s going to have go talk some sense into him about that, too.

There’s a lotta people who need some sense talked or shaken or punched into them in these parts.

The Qun would have a fucking field day.

Bull sighs and it’s freezing as shit but there’s the promise of dragons so. There’s that.


	187. Chapter 187

Lavellan is about as excited as anything, looking like she’s about to vibrate out of her skin.

The woman looks down at her and smiles. _Fond_.

“Hello.” She says, raising a hand and Lavellan gasps. A small little sound before she says in a rushing tumble of words -

“Please wait here.” And then Lavellan streaks off in the direction of the Herald’s Rest, leaving a slight trail of frost behind.

“I assure you, Lady Adaar, she is like that. All the time.” Josephine says. “And it was certainly not you.”

“It would not be the first time I sent someone running.” The qunari woman shrugs. “It will not be the last. Am I to wait as instructed?”

“It would be best.” Josephine admits, because it would be one thing if Lavellan didn’t say anything at all and ran, but she did say to wait.

Adaar hums, “Also. I am not _Lady Adaar_. I am not a Lady anything. It is nice of you to say.”

“I apologize.” Josephine replies. “Do you have a preferred title?”

“Simply Adaar. Or, if we are to be working together long term – I do not mind Herah.” Adaar says, “Is that your Inquisitor on the wall?”

“Yes.” Josephine says. Herah raises an eyebrow. Josephine turns to actually look on the off chance that it was _not_ Lavellan. “Yes. That’s her. I think she’s telling us to wait.”

Adaar hums, waving at Lavellan who disappears from view once more.

“This is what she is like all the time?”

“Unless she’s especially tired, yes.” Josephine replies. “I am sorry for the wait. I thought that I had told her you were a qunari.”

“Is that a problem with her? I am Vashoth. Did you tell her that as well? All of the Valo-kas are Vashoth.”

“It is not a problem.” Josephine says, “I assure you, the Inquisitor has no problems with the qunari – Vashoth or not.”

Lavellan appears once more, dragging Bull the down the stairs, both of her hands wrapped around his wrist, and Sera trailing behind them.

Lavellan bounds back over to Josephine and Adaar once she’s ascertained that the two are going to continue following without her. Lavellan waits for Bull to come over before she presses against his side, looking between Bull and Adaar, expectantly.

“Hey.” Bull says, “Valo-kas, right? Heard about you guys. Done some impressive work.”

“The Iron Bull’s Chargers.” Adaar dips her head, holding out her hand for Bull to shake. “Solid group. Been quiet though. Wondered where you guys went. Didn’t think it’d be here. Heard the rumors, I had to see it for myself.”

“Things are good here.” Bull says, grinning. “There are a lot of dragons and a lot of Vints that trip on my sword.”

Adaar snorts. “Maybe the Valo-kas should’ve signed up for that contract at the Conclave after all.”

Lavellan tugs at Bull’s wrist until he bends down so she can whisper something in his ear. Bull snorts and nods. Some sort of signal that causes Lavellan to dart forward.

“Hello.” Lavellan breathes, staring up at Adaar in awe. “I’m not good at meeting new people, I’m often told that I can be a trial and a quest and a journey and some other things that I don’t really understand, but you’re a mage _and_ you’re a qunari and I’m a mage and I have a friend who is a qunari and I think that between the three of us I can somehow come out of this not hurting your feelings and I would very much like that, hello, your hair is so _beautiful_.”

Adaar blinks, and looks from her to Bull, and points. “All the time?”

Bull nods. “This is actually pretty tame.”

Adaar whistles.

“I know, right?”

-

Lavellan is lying down, eyes flickering underneath her eyelids as the sun makes patterns on her face.

“We are off to war.” Lavellan whispers.

Cole is a shadow in the trees on a nearby branch.

Solas nods.

“To war.”

“To death, to glory, to pain, to history.” Lavellan half-sings. Her hands are folded over her stomach, and lying still like this she looks dead. Ready for burial – or burning.

Solas swears to everything he has left that if she dies, he will not let them burn her.

His da’len is trees and soil, growth and renewal. Never, ever bitter ashes. He doesn’t need to see more of those he cherishes turn to dust.

Solas kneels next to her, avoiding blocking the light. He takes her hand – not the one with the Anchor – in his. He presses it to his forehead and whispers a half-forgotten prayer from a time when these prayers weren’t prayers, but messages of faith between friends. Falon. _Lethallin_.

Her hand is light in his own.

“I lead them.” She says, in a voice like golden grass. “They will fall.”

“Not because of you, but for you.” Solas reminds her. “For all of us.”

Lavellan’s knuckles brush against his eyebrow. “I thought you did not pray for comfort.”

“You do.” Solas says.

“I do not think there is any god – trapped or free – who would give me favor now.” Lavellan replies. “I am alone in this.”

There is one not-god, Solas thinks, who would give you ever favor should you ever need it.

(He cannot give her the one favor she needs most. _To live_.)

Solas swallows and breathes. He is not the wolf now, except for when he always is the wolf.

A wolf can hide in skins but hidden is not the same as _changed_.

“So much blood.” Lavellan sighs, turning her head away from him. “So much pain. For what? For this?”

Lavellan raises the hand with the anchor.

“What makes this so special?” She says, half to herself, “What is so important in the heavens, anyway? All that matters is here.”

There was more, Solas thinks. Here used to be so much _more_.

“The mounts are rested.” Solas says, “We go.”

Lavellan slowly turns to look at him, and she sits up to press his hand to her forehead. “Bless me, hahren.”

Solas swallows hard and he shakes his head -

“Please.” She whispers. “ _Please_.”

“Enaste.” Solas whispers, words heavy in this mouth. “Hahren’enaste, da’len. Go with my blessing. With whatever it means to you.”


	188. Chapter 188

“You should run.” Krem says, “I’m just saying that I’ve heard of this guy and if we had a chance we’d have gotten him a contract, but also the Chief would probably have steered us in the opposite way just because of the carnage. There isn’t room for him _and_ us.”

“Blackwall is right, we should all own up to our own actions and take responsibility.”

“I’m killing Blackwall.” Sera says, turning to Cassandra who’s been pacing just outside the open doorway to the tavern. “You go for the dwarf, I’ll go for the big hairy one.”

“Deal.” Cassandra says, knuckles cracking as she rolls her neck and mumbles something in Nevarran that is probably a death sentence.

“I need to borrow a helmet.” Lavellan says, “Hawke was my responsibility.”

“Hawke is no one’s responsibility.” A voice says from behind them and they all jump up, Cassandra stopping hard mid-turn and flinging herself through the open doorway. Sera wonders if now is the time to throw down, or throw up.

The elf leaning against the open window raises a pale brow.

“Andraste preserve us all.” Krem says, digging the heel of his palm against his forehead, “He’s worse than the boy. _What is with elves and sneaking up_? Why?”

“Training from years of trying to avoid oppression and destruction.” Dalish says, causing Krem to curse and turn around to glare at her. She shrugs.

“Stop that. Seriously. Skinner, if you’re around here and waiting, just get it over with now.”

“Skinner’s out with Rocky.” Dalish says.

Lavellan takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes. “Alright. I am ready. Please hit me as you see fit. But before you do I want it to be known that it was me who kept burning various correspondences with nobles.”

Fenris stares at her and promptly, before anyone can stop him, smacks the back of her head. _Hard_.

“As I said.” Fenris repeats, when Lavellan falls to her knees with a loud yelp, clutching the back of her head and looking up at him. “Hawke is no one’s responsibility. If Hawke _was_ , I pity the person who that responsibility falls to – that person who is not _you_ , because it is most likely Aveline.”

“You’re not here to kill me?” Lavellan says, hesitant, “Because – well. Most people with big names who come to Skyhold are either here to kill me, bring me bad news, or use me for leverage.”

“I would not announce my intentions to come here if I _was_ going to kill you.” Fenris says. “I would make a poor assassin indeed, if that were so.”

“Oh.” Lavellan says, still on the floor and looking up at him. “Then – what _are_ you here for, if not to kill me for letting Hawke go?”

“A delivery, first.” Fenris says, “From Merrill. I do not wish to have it on my person longer than necessary.”

Fenris holds out a small, paper wrapped parcel to her. Lavellan gingerly takes it into her hands, and Fenris looks visibly relieved to have it out of his own.

“And now that is completed. As for my intentions on coming to Skyhold – Aveline and Isabela would have me pry every little detail from you to bring back to them without the dwarf softening the blow. Merrill would have me comfort you with meaningless words. Seeing you, as you are now, instead I think I ought to tell you what Varric or someone else should have.” Fenris slowly kneels so that he is at eye level with her. “It is true that Hawke is gone, and was lost in venturing with you. This is fact. Hawke would not blame you. Hawke would, most likely, be insulted that you have taken the blame and responsibility for the events that occurred with the Nightmare. Hawke volunteered. Hawke chose. Unhappy the rest of us may be with this decision, angered and hurt by it, yes. But it was not _your_ decision, not truly. You may have said the words, but the decision had already been made. And Hawke has always been peculiarly fond of taking credit for terrible decisions.”

-

“I met some interesting people the other day, in Val Royeaux.” Lavellan says, taking the chair next to him, curiously leaning over to glance at the stack of letters he can never seem to get to the bottom of before someone comes by with _another stack of letters_.

“You always do, poppy.” Varric says, rubbing his eyes and wondering if this is going to lead with her inviting him to go and kill things. He could really use the break from _paperwork_.

“Cadash. Are you familiar with the name? They seem to be familiar with you. Is there anyone you don’t know?”

“Cart lyrium smugglers, right?” Varric asks. “And most surface dwarves tend to know each other – after a fashion. Sort of like you Dalish, right?”

“That’s because we have to prevent too much inbreeding somehow.” Lavellan says, leaning her head on her arms as she pokes at the little stack of letters. “They said they were going to go to the Conclave, too, but their caravan was delayed by a storm.”

“The Cadash are always getting into shit. This is probably the first time they’ve avoided it.” Varric replies. “What were they doing in Val Royeaux?”

“I didn’t ask.” Lavellan says, “They asked me to send their greetings to you. Also, would you be willing to be our go between for lyrium trade?”

“Legitimate trade?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know Cadash _did_ legitimate trade.”

“It’s a time for trying new things.” Lavellan declares. “Like holes in the sky and – and other things that are new.”

They both look up as a messenger drops another stack of letters on the table, more mail in a bag at his side as he hurries off towards Josephine’s office.

“You know what’d be new? Not getting angry mail from the Merchant’s Guild. That I want to try.”

“Good luck with that.” Lavellan replies, “In the mean time could you explain Paragons and the Shaperate to me? I tried asking Rocky but he doesn’t make it as easy to understand as you do. I think it’s because you’re a writer so you use words a lot more than he does. He just made a lot of exploding noises and hand gestures. Which are nice, but they have a time and a place, I think, don’t you?”


	189. Chapter 189

There is a point to made somewhere that despite the fact that this is the woman who saved Thedas, not just once but twice - ignoring the multiple times she saved Thedas within counteracting one of the threats to it - is also the woman Olrais thinks they can _control_.  
  
"It would be amusing if it were not so insulting." Leliana says. "Who do they think we are, exactly?"  
  
"Push overs, apparently." Cullen replies, running a hand down his face.  
  
"The problems with saving the world never end." Josephine says as she sorts letters, "The world continues to be full of problems, inconsequential and not."  
  
"Hopefully our duty is to the _consequential_ matters." Cullen says, "Such as what are we to do with this army? Despite the numbers that have returned home, there's a significant portion that remains with us, and an even growing number who keep coming despite it all being over."  
  
"Reconstruction, of course." Josephine answers. "But after that? I don't know what our Inquisitor is considering."  
  
"Skyhold's holdings swell by the day." Leliana leans her hip against the war table, arms crossed as she surveys the map. "And those who would oppose us seem to only be growing more foolish by the moment without the larger threat of Corypheus and his Red Templars over us. They think to succeed where he failed."  
  
"The Inquisition and Inquisitor have made enemies. This we knew." Cullen says, "What I would like to know is how so many of them keep finding ways to get at us."  
  
"Too many people coming in and out, not enough security." Leliana clicks her tongue. "Not our fault. There are only so many background checks and guards we can have around at once. Procedure and logistics and other such things. The Inquisition is weak on the inside, vulnerable. We never expected an attack from within our own walls."  
  
"We're working on that." Josephine says. "There's time for us to focus on other things, now. Any word on Solas, Leliana?"  
  
"None. He is gone, vanished." Leliana's mouth turns sharp. "How do these people keep slipping past mine? Surana, Morrigan, Blackwall, now Solas. Who next? Will Cullen actual reveal he's from Orlais?"  
  
Cullen balks.  
  
Josephine hides her smile behind her quill, "Leliana."  
  
"I'm just saying, Josie." Leliana sighs, "I've had enough surprises."  
  
-  
  
She curls her hands around his, is this forgiveness?  
  
"Blackwall." She says, quiet and tired and weary. "Enough."  
  
His hands ache from the sword, his arm rings with the strikes against his shield. His skin feels shrunken with sweat and salt and heat and blood and damp.  
  
"I am well." She says, because she's all he has, now. He swore himself to this girl and he's had enough with breaking loyalty for a thousand lifetimes. She gave him another chance.  
  
He doesn't deserve any more chances.  
  
He _is_ the stupid mongrel. Maker.  
  
Her hands are small and fine, but calloused and scarred - knife here, arrow tip there, burn?, electricity, fire - as she works his hands out of fists. Gloves sweat soaked and hot with battle.  
  
"I am well." She repeats, gently setting the sword down and taking the shield off his arm. Blackwall breathes and she looks at him, expectantly, until he takes off his helmet. She smiles, a quick one. One of her small ones that makes him think of tricks and illusions. Ghosts.  
  
"Thank you." She says and he can't thank her enough. Not with this blade or shield - both of which she gave him. Prizes won and remade - for him. To fit your hand, she says when she hands the hilt over to him, for you, my guardian especially. To fit you, she says when she places metal ores in his hands as if to see which would become part of him.  
  
Maker he can't ever make it up to her.  
  
Everyone seems to know it but her.  
  
Blackwall remains quiet and Lavellan looks into him until he bows his head and looks away.  
  
Coward.  
  
Maybe this is what he wanted. Maybe this is why he turned  himself in.  
  
Her kindness was too good, too damned fucking noble for him. Better to die and not deal with this. But here he is, alive, faced with the full brunt force of her blessedness and him like this.  
  
He is a coward.  
  
"There's a reason why Varric calls you Hero." Lavellan says and when he dares to look up she's already gone, like a trick or a ghost and Blackwall breathes a sigh of regret.  
  
-  
  
This is where Sera says something like _I told you so_ about Solas being a giant prick. This is where she tells Lavellan _I told you so about your Gods not being real_ , and how the Dalish got it all wrong, and how you were the one being stupid about it all this entire time.  
  
This is the part where Lavellan defends it all to her last breath.  
  
This is not that part.  
  
This is the part where Sera is crying and she can't stop and here face is running with snot and salt and everything gross because they never got the Inquisition Cookies to taste good enough to blot out the memory of Pride Cookies and now she hates Pride Cookies even more because she knows enough to know what _Solas_ means. This is the part where not even Dagna to get her to stop crying shit all over the place and where Sera's hands shake too hard for her to do anything fucking useful, not that she can.  
  
This is the part where Sera wishes she weren't such a shit to Lavellan and that she should've fucking nailed Solas' ass to a wall when she had the chance. With something set on fire.  
  
Lavellan is pale, like one of the corpses they dredge out of lakes, and Sera wasn't there when they found her in the eluvian thing, but she was there when they brought her out of it.  
  
Blood and the smell of death.  
  
She was missing the fancy part everyone said was her important part.  
  
Sera thinks that she was missing the important part that everyone says was her fancy part.  
  
They had to restart her heart. _Twice_.  
  
It was scary and the demon was scarier because he wouldn't shut up, and everyone looked like this was it, and it was Solas and the demon couldn't even stay in focus because it was Solas. It was him and they trusted him, or at least Lavellan and the demon did and that's terrible because Sera knows how much it hurts when the people you look up at and the people who take care of you hurt you by lying.  
  
This is the part where Sera shakes Lavellan and says don't do that to me ever again.  
  
This isn't.  
  
This is the part where Dalish screams for Stitches and Sera can hear it through the door because Lavellan's heart stopped again and someone needs more lyrium to keep her alive.  
  
This is the part where - whether anyone knows it or not, the Inquisition ends.


	190. Chapter 190

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

"You'd think that we'd be used to this by now. You would be _wrong_." Dorian muses, one arm around Lavellan's waist to keep her from wandering into the crowd. Cullen sighs next to him. "You probably shouldn't ignore this as the Commanding Officer here. That's how military works, yes?"  
  
"We can change that. Probably." Cullen says, though he still continues to look on, mournfully as Blackwall physically holds Sera back from trying to throw a strange flask at Cole. "She knows it would just go through him, right?"  
  
"Probably pisses her off even more." Dorian says, drawing a circle with a finger. "A vicious, _vicious_ cycle. And here comes Bull to save the day. I never thought I'd say that."  
  
"Is this what it looks like when delegation goes well?" Cullen muses.  
  
"No, this is what it looks like when delegation goes the way it always goes in this insane and twisted conundrum of an organization. You put the word _organization_ to shame." Dorian says, squeezing Lavellan tighter against his side and sighing when she absently starts to chew on the wrist of her own shirt. "Ten minutes, I swear. Ten minutes of watching this train wreck and then we can go check on the kittens."  
  
"What kittens?" Cullen asks. Because, honestly, if Lavellan or Cole hasn't put it in his bed, bookshelf, or clothes chest when he wasn't looking, Cullen isn't aware of it's existence. It, being, the presence of any small animal.  
  
"I was going to show you later, but Cassandra told me I shouldn't." Lavellan says, releasing her sleeve from her teeth, sounding sullen. "Cole was going to sneak them in tonight, though. He said they were ready."  
  
"Was?"  
  
" _Is_." Lavellan amends. "Don't tell Cassandra."  
  
Down below them Bull has Sera and Cole in each arm and is saying something and bodily dragging them off to the garden.  
  
"Should I be concerned?" Cullen says. "I should be concerned."  
  
Sera is throwing bottles and Skinner is, somehow, catching them all. Cole looks like he wants to disappear. Cullen is honestly surprised that he hasn't already.  
  
"There are kittens in the garden." Lavellan muses. "Do you think Bull is going to show them those kittens?"  
  
"Just how many kittens are there in Skyhold?" Dorian asks.  
  
Cullen and he both turn to look at her. Lavellan hums, eyes fixed on the clouds.  
  
"Not enough." She eventually answers. "Can we go look at the ones behind the stables now?"  
  
-  
  
Vivienne sits next to her bed, hands neatly folded in her lap or otherwise holding a book that she skims through. Sometimes she reads and answers letters, occasionally commenting on them out loud to Lavellan.  
  
Lavellan's remaining hand flexes, restless. But the rest of her is too weak, recovering, to follow suit. Her eyes roam the ceiling, looking for something.  
  
Vivienne knows better than to ask what.  
  
Vivienne also knows better than to ask what the woman is thinking, how she's feeling, what's going on in her head.  
  
They've raised her into, perhaps, one of the most dangerous players in the Game, in that Lavellan is no longer _playing_.  
  
Sometimes Lavellan's eyes are piercing on her face, looking into her the way that Vivienne sometimes remembers her looking into others. The Commander, Varric, the Iron Bull, on the occasion, even Solas.  
  
She wonders what Lavellan sees and why she has chosen now to look at Vivienne like that.  
  
It is discomfiting.  
  
It is old and powerful in ways Vivienne has never associated with youth and summer. More violent, violent spring than any sort of golden field of grain.  
  
Lavellan's declaration has left all of Thedas reeling, and it's by some stroke of luck, or perhaps respect or fear or both, that keeps them from being bodily thrown out of the Winter Palace while she recovers from her injuries.  
  
Physical injuries.  
  
There are just some hurts that never do heal.  
  
Sometimes they fester. Vivienne knows so much about that sort of festering wound. You learn to cover it up. You learn to soak in the infected fluids of it, and make it part of you. You become protective of it. You dare others to touch it, to try and bear a small drop of the magnitude of your putridness.  
  
Your _pulchritude_.  
  
Lavellan's face is so much glass, captured in a single strike of lightning.  
  
A single betrayal that undid over twenty years worth of resistance to hatred and oppression and violence.  
  
"A leash," Lavellan's voice - low, deep, sinuous, a serpent sliding out of its shell, the rumbling storm at the edge of the horizon - breaks the silence as she watches Vivienne with those piercing eyes, "You once told me, is pulled _both_ ways."  
  
Lavellan watches. Vivienne watches back.  
  
They are not the same sort of serpent.  
  
"Yes." Vivienne closes the book between her palms, feeling the cover with every inch of her raw and alive and seething skin. The corner of Lavellan's lip curls up, softly. Gently. A single drop of rain.  
  
"And if the leash is cut?" Lavellan asks, and the bandaged arm moves. A small shift, really. Nothing Vivienne should make note of. Everything Vivienne should be on guard for.  
  
"Then it's a free for all, and the rules no longer matter." Vivienne replies.  
  
Lavellan smiles, fully. A bloom of teeth and serpent scales.  
  
The storm.  
  
-  
  
"Did you love him?" Sera asks her, once.  
  
Just once, because Sera isn't stupid. Once is enough to dredge it all up. It's enough to put it away after.  
  
"I do." Lavellan says, and her face is everything that Sera hates about the Lavellan in the rain even though there isn't a single cloud in sight. Sera wonders if this is what Andraste's face wouldl've looked like if she were an elf.  
  
Sera doesn't ask about why still now, because she's trying to be Lavellan's friend even after all this, and that's _hard_ but Lavellan is worth it because Lavellan was with her the entire time. That's what friends mean, don't it? You stay with them even when it's hard and scary because they stay with _you_ and this is just another kind of love. Or something.  
  
So Sera just nods and looks away even though Lavellan is still looking at her and Sera's eyes skip over the space where the fancy part that made her important was.  
  
Lavellan's important part is still in her somewhere, Sera believes that with everything she has and it's worth the belief because sometimes Lavellan will laugh like she used to and say something so stupidly crazy and out of this world that she's nothing but the Lavellan Sera _knew_ in snow and castle gardens and tavern walls.  
  
"I'm glad you're my friend." Sera says to her, reminds her, reminds them both, and Lavellan raises a silent eyebrow. Friend or _Friend_? "Both. More the first one."  
  
Lavellan smiles.  
  
"So am I." She says, and Sera can't help but snap her into a hug, and squeeze her with everything she has because friends.  
  
Sera presses her cheek to Lavellan's.  
  
"Say hi to whoever it is you're going to see next for me." Sera says, "Write me. Also if you anyone did anything stupid you tell me. If you're going to see Varric next tell him I'm coming over. Also, come back soon, yeah?"  
  
One arm comes up to touch the back of Sera's neck, and that one arm is strong enough to push Sera to almost crying again.  
  
"Yes." Lavellan says, cheek warm against Sera's. "Yes."


	191. Chapter 191

“He betrayed you.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“He left.”

“He isn’t here to defend himself.” Lavellan curls her arms around herself and Dalish looks at her, just looks and they are sisters in this because all Dalish are brothers and sisters, in pain and glory and sacrifice if nothing else. The anchor flares, a rip of energy that stings across her cheek when it lashes out, and makes Dalish’s face look haunted. “We cannot talk of a man’s trespasses if he is not here to refute them. Those are the rules.”

“He is not here.” Dalish says, “That is evidence enough. _He left you_.”

 _I know_ , Lavellan thinks.

“He broke trust.” Dalish continues, “He was your _hahren_. You made the pact. _He_ made the pact. You were _bound_ and he broke it without consent. That is enough to make him guilty. And now there is this evidence in front of you. _He betrays you as you defend him_. Why do you defend the rabid hound that spreads the disease?”

Lavellan closes her eyes and shifts through memories because she cannot remember him as anything other than her _hahren_ , caring for her and teaching her and guiding her and advising her and just being _there_.

“I claim him.” Lavellan says and the anchor hurts, hurts, hurts, _howls_. “I claim him as my hahren.”

Dalish lets out a hiss between her teeth, and Dalish’ mana is the razor tips of thorns and hoar-frost, familiar but not _her hahren’s_. Not hers. Bull’s clan. Bull’s lethallin, _not hers_.

Sisters in skins, strangers in kin.

Lavellan curls her own mana around herself, protective. Shielding the hurt, the decay, the _rotting and festering and bubbling_. She is nothing but dark things, now.

Once she was more than dark bitter things but it feels like now she is only those things and she doesn’t know if she will ever be _not this_ again. Lavellan doesn’t even know if she will continue to be this, be anything.

“You _claim him?”_ Dalish hisses to her and Dalish’s hands shake her shoulders and Lavellan looks up from her hurt and into Dalish and they are sisters in pain but they are strangers in knowing.

“Yes.” Lavellan says, _he’s all I have left to claim as my own_. “Yes. No matter who he is, or what he has done. I claim him. He is my hahren, I am his da’len. _I claim him as mine. My teacher, my elder. My clan. My responsibility_.”

Lavellan draws on that darkness because you do not have room to pick and choose when you are drowning in yourself -

“I claim him.” Lavellan repeats, “Once, I was a stranger and foreigner, alien and stranded among the land of the quick. _And among them all there was only one who reached out with the sheltering horns and wings of stags and eagles_. When I was alone, wronged and helpless, _among them there was only one who gave me the tools to help myself and right those wrongs_.”

Dalish closes her eyes.

“When I was alone, who was with me?” Lavellan says, “When I was afraid, who explained things to me? When I was hurt – raw and fresh –, who was the one who kept the infection away?”

“That is not enough to keep you. You owe him nothing. There are others you can claim as your own – _there are others who would do the same now_.” Dalish’s hands crackle with electricity. Lavellan’s hands crackle with the Fade. “I would do the same. The Iron Bull would do the same. _He is not your only kin_.”

“You do not leave kin when times are hard.”

“He left _you_.”

“I claim him regardless.” Lavellan says, hands curling into fists. “Because I am selfish. And I am tired of losing. If there is one thing – one _fucking thing I’m going to get to keep, it’s the people I chose.”_

“You will regret this.” Dalish warns her, but the electricity dies from her hands and there’s wetness in her eyes. “The Dread Wolf has taken you.”

“What is love if not regret?” Lavellan replies, the Fade washing over her skin, like so many knife edges, “What is dread but the anticipation of regret?”

-

Cassandra wakes up from a nightmare with her hand outstretched for something she isn’t sure – she doesn’t remember who or what she was reaching for. But there are words in her head in a voice that’s already fading and slipping from her mind that accuses her _you should have cherished – more –_ who? What? _Why?_

Cassandra breathes and sweat is stuck to her skin, though when she throws back the covers the mountain air is quick to make it chill on her skin. Cassandra breathes, the room is quiet and still. No sounds except her breathing, and of course, the faintest of drafts that haunts the old castle.

If she were the type, she would say that it’s the fortress’ own breathing.

She isn’t.

She leaves such poetry for Varric and Cole and Lavellan, and on the odd occasion, Leliana.

Cassandra runs a hand through her hair, sweat and that peculiar sort of layer of shadows that only true night can make _physical_.

She wonders if Cullen is awake, or actually asleep for once. He has always been indulgent of her random walks around the battlements, and she is certain he would humor her in coming with her. Perhaps Sutherland is awake. He’s an _excitable_ young man. And he could use some more training. She finds that she doesn’t mind him nearly as much as she thought she would.

Leliana might be awake, but Cassandra isn’t in the mood to be picked apart and read through candle lights and croaking birds.

Cullen it is, then.

Cassandra finds her boots in the dark, and shoves her arms into a jacket that Josephine had commissioned for her when all of their supply routes had been figured out.

“You need more clothes than just armor. Regardless of what you may think, you are not impervious and that tends to entail things such as catching colds.” Josephine had told her, gently smiling around the admonishment. Only Josephine, Cassandra thinks, pressing her nose into the fur-lined collar, before wrapping it more firmly around herself.

Cassandra leaves the sword behind.

There are guards posted, and awake – Cassandra nods at them, and makes a mental note to commend them to the Commander. Soldiers who actually stay awake and alert during the night watch are something to be proud of.

The main hall is strange without its usual crowd of sycophants and devotees. And Varric, she supposes. The faint light that shines through the windows make the Inquisitor’s throne _ominous_. More so than in the daylight.

Cassandra wonders if she should go through the main courtyard, or through the rotunda. Leliana might see her and she might wake Solas, on one hand. On the other, the main doors are slow and loud to open, and she does not look forward to walking through the dark courtyard – regardless of the few torches and their guard patrols present.

The rotunda.

Cassandra eases the door to the rotunda open, skirting around the edges of the room. Slowly. She takes the time to appreciate what Solas is doing to the bare walls in ways she won’t in daylight hours. Not when the rotunda is a hive of scholars and nobles and Tranquil, not when Dorian and Solas and Leliana and all the others are sliding in and out and seemingly watching every move a foreigner to this area of the castle, like her, make.

Solas is asleep in his chair, hands folded over her stomach. She tucks a laugh into the corner of her mouth. His neck will ache tomorrow. She wonders if he is cold, and considers leaving her jacket over him. Then considers otherwise.

She does not want to leave it behind and risk waking him – risk leaving evidence of herself behind.

Cassandra raises her eyes higher. She can’t see any lights from Leliana’s rookery, but that means little. Leliana and her scouts are more than capable of working in the dark.

Cassandra opens the door leading to Cullen’s tower, and is unsurprised to see the faintest glimmer of light from underneath his door.

They need to get him new doors, she thinks, if this much light is escaping from underneath them.

They also need to get him a new roof, she mentally snorts. One battle at a time. Cassandra doesn’t have the patience to convince him to get a new roof while also trying to convince Lavellan not to throw open their doors to every sort of creature that may or may not be on two legs.

Cassandra scuffs her boot before Cullen’s door, and raps her knuckles on it once, barely waiting for Cullen’s slightly belated “ _Enter”_ to open it.

“It is colder in here than it is outside.” Cassandra says and Cullen sighs, not even looking up from the permanent installment of paperwork on his desk, waving his hand at one of the chairs someone dragged in from the main hall. Cassandra sits in it and can’t help the amused smile that flickers over her mouth at the small pyramid of acorns at the corner of his desk. Someone – Lavellan herself, or perhaps Cole – has stuck a small flower between the acorns.

Cassandra probably could mention his roof here. Instead she crosses her arms and closes her eyes.

The scratch of Cullen’s pen fills the room, along with the occasional sound of movement from the guards on the north and south sides of the Commander’s office. Cullen’s breathing is steady and low, and beyond that Cassandra hears what could be labeled as Skyhold’s breath by Lavellan or Cole or Varric.

Cullen doesn’t ask her any questions or make any comments, because he’s just as bad as she is and understands the need for silence.

Cassandra doesn’t open her eyes.

“Josephine ordered a dozen miniature cakes today.” Cullen says and Cassandra grunts. “I’m not sure why. One for each of us, she said.”

“There are thirteen of us with the Inquisitor.” Cassandra replies.

“I think she forgot Cole.”

“Does Cole eat?”

“I think the Inquisitor is working on that.” Cullen replies. “I’m concerned about the cakes.”

“They’re _cakes_.”

“Leliana was laughing the entire time. With her eyes. I’ve grown to be somewhat wary of that.”

Cullen is a smart man. Cassandra hums.

“Don’t eat the cake.” She concludes.

“And risk Josephine’s disappointment?”

“Is this where you lose a battle to win a war, Commander?”

“This is where I make a tactical sacrifice.” Cullen says. Cassandra cracks an eye open to look at him. He’s still working but a corner of his mouth is turned upwards. She hopes that the Inquisition makes him happy. More than the Templars ever made him happy. If there’s anyone who deserves peace, it’s him. Cassandra promised him something better.

Cassandra does not go back on her promises.

“It can’t be that bad.” Cassandra concludes.

“Oh?”

“ _You_ have never had a Death Day cake from Nevarra.” Cassandra says. “When you have, then you may complain.”


	192. Chapter 192

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

“I can’t believe I’m going back to Kirkwall to _make way for the Herald of Andraste_.” Varric says. “Aveline is going to shit herself with the amount of security she’s going to have to set aside for you. She might also kill _me_ for brining the Inquisition down on her.”

Aveline will not shit herself. Aveline will probably make _Varric_ shit himself. Aveline is going to give him a _look_ , adjust her sword, and brow-beat Kirkwall’s bureaucracy into some semblance of order in time to present itself to the Inquisitor of Thedas as a semi-functional and respectable organization.

“She sounds scary. Is she anything like Cassandra?” Lavellan asks, sitting on one of the bags of _stuff_ Josephine insists Varric goes with. It could be letters, it could be food, it could be bills and death threats. For all he knows, she’s sent him off with a little case full of cake.

Varric isn’t going to look because he’s actually half expecting Lavellan to have snuck in something along side it. Like a wyvern egg or some shit like that.

Varric should probably check before he gets to Kirkwall. Being Aveline’s friend isn’t enough to keep him out of jail for bringing a baby – _something_ to Kirkwall.

“Poppy.” Varric says, taking her hand and stopping her from picking the brown wrapping on a box open, thus revealing its mystery contents. Lavellan looks at him, then back at the package, then at the string that ties it together, then back at him. Varric waits for this process to complete itself before continuing. “Let’s never let Cassandra and Aveline meet and leave it at that, shall we?”

Lavellan nods and Varric lets her go and she goes back to prodding at the paper and string. It makes an alarming _squelching_ noise that makes Lavellan’s face light up like it’s Saturnalia.

Varric sighs and resigns himself to being terrorized by guards.

“Will I like Kirkwall? Cullen goes a little gray whenever someone mentions Kirkwall. Will I do that, too? I’m going to try and bring Cullen with me when I go because Leliana says he needs a break and I think this will be a nice break because he wont be in charge because Aveline will be.” Lavellan says. “Also Bull told me not to believe anything anyone in Kirkwall says and Cullen is an excellent judge of character and Cassandra told me to bring him with me, probably for that reason. I would bring Dorian but I think Dorian might throw me overboard. Did you know he gets seasick?”

“He’s mentioned it multiple times. Whenever we’re near a body of water, actually.”

They both turn around to where Dorian was, and as if on cue, he takes that exact moment to sit down and groan, head in his hands.

Cole tentatively pats his hair, looking confused and mildly _amused_.

Lavellan turns back to Varric and squints.

“Will any of your friends at Kirkwall kill me?”

“Daisy likes you. Aveline’s too professional for that. Isabela would probably be charmed within five minutes of meeting you, if not you should probably bring Bull to distract her. And Fenris had his chance.”

Lavellan continues to squint at him before abruptly jumping to her feet and hugging him.

“I’m going to try and bring Merrill one of the new foals, so can you please tell her to find a way to make room?”

Aveline is going to throw him into the fucking docks and leave him there to _die_.

“Sure, Poppy.” Varric sighs, patting her back. “No problem.”

-

Dorian is, for the most part, sleeping off a terrible cold that’s been making rounds through Skyhold.

Lavellan is the only one who seems immune. Even the tip of Solas’ nose is red, and his voice is starting to lean towards scratchy.

Dorian would be more pleased about this if he, himself, couldn’t get up without the room spinning and his nose attempting to annex itself from his _face_. He has such a lovely nose. It really adds character to his profile.

Cole of course, is immune by default, and has mostly been bringing various people the random things that seem to always pop up in their heads when they have a cold. You know, those random trails of thought that you have when you’re sick.

Dorian had one about baby bees the other day and Cole had told him, dejected and a little upset at himself, “I can’t bring baby bees to Skyhold because the cold isn’t good for them and they won’t understand why.”

Dorian had fumbled around to pat at Cole’s face in an attempt to make his guilty look go away. He quite possibly said something along the lines of forgiveness, but it’s really anyone’s guess.

He doesn’t know what the hell Stitches has been medicating half the hold with, but this would be the perfect opportunity for someone who hates the Inquisition to strike.

Half of them are drugged out of their skulls and the other half are miserably sniffling in their boots.

Josephine, that sweet angel, has been marching on like a true trooper and Dorian is surprised to hear she only passed out onto a treaty – ink smearing onto her face – just this morning.

Lavellan continues to peel apples next to him, Cole’s been steadily emptying the basket by bringing the apples to – _whoever_.

Her voice is a low stream of chatter that should most likely be giving Dorian a headache, but isn’t.

Dorian worms an arm out from underneath the covers, only to have her quickly snag his wrist and tuck his arm back under.

She shushes him.

Dorian was not aware that he was making any noise.

Lavellan shushes him again and switches out the towel on his forehead.

Why is it called a cold when you get a fever?

“You get it because it’s cold.” Lavellan says. Does she read minds now?

“You’re fairly obvious, Dorian.” Lavellan says and starts singing. Dorian closes his eyes and wishes his nose wouldn’t leave his face. He likes his nose.

-

“Rylen.” He gives himself credit for not startling, this time, and wonders if this means he’s getting used to it or if he’s really just honed his instincts not to react to external stimulus anymore.

“Your worship.” He says, turning around to bow his head at her.

Lavellan, as always, looks mildly puzzled by the action, and awkwardly bows her head back.

“Rylen.” She repeats, looking around. At the grass, at the sky, vaguely in the direction of the lone cloud to grace the sky today, at a mountain in the distance, at some nobles in flashy colors walking by, at her toes, at his helmet. Rylen waits because you don’t train for years as a Templar to get impatient.

Lavellan turns in a slow circle, hands folded behind her back, humming what he recognizes as one of the drinking songs Sutherland’s group made up the other week.

Rylen waits.

“Cullen had a message for you.” Lavellan says. “I think it was important. Most of Cullen’s messages are important, aren’t they?”

“Yes, your worship.” Rylen mentally goes through what the message could be about. And he wonders why a messenger didn’t come fetch him sooner, or give him the message.

“I don’t know the message.” Lavellan says after a bit more spinning. “I just overheard him saying it when I was climbing around his roof.”

Rylen closes his eyes against the unsteady uptick in his chest because he doesn’t want to imagine the _Herald of Andraste_ climbing the Commander’s shoddy roof unsupervised.

Maker’s fucking _breath_.

“Rylen why are the Inquisition colors green and orange?” Lavellan asks. “No one can tell me why.”

“They blend into scenery well.” Rylen says.

Lavellan just looks at him like she knows he’s making it up. In hindsight, it really does blend in well with most terrain.

Rylen sighs.

“It was all they could afford at first.”

Lavellan nods, “I liked your first answer better.”

“So do most other people, my lady.” Rylen says.

Lavellan takes his hand, reaches into her pocket, and puts down what looks like an apple seed in the center of his palm, closing his fingers around it.

She lets go of his hand and meanders off in the vague direction of the surgeons.

Rylen sighs.

“Takes years off your life talking to her, doesn’t it?” Blackwall says as he walks by, on his way to the blacksmith’s building.

“Maker yes.” Rylen says.


	193. Chapter 193

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, this takes place before Trespasser, after the end of inquistion when lavellan goes to seal rifts at kirkwall like in varrics letter.

"Oh, this is all very exciting. Can I go on one of the guided tours, _please_?" Lavellan says, and Cullen quickly switches her bowl of stew with his, wincing a little with something vaguely purple floats to the top of the bowl he just switched with. He's going to kill Varric for telling her about the mystery meat stew.  
  
Because _of course_ she'd be curious enough to _want_ to try it.  
  
"No."  
  
Maker's breath, why did he let Dorian and Bull - and Cassandra and Leliana and Josephine and Rylen and half his entire bloody _staff_ \- bully him into coming? This is why he looks stressed and haggard, Dorian, Cullen mentally thinks. _This_ is _exactly_ why.  
  
Lavellan looks around the Hanged Man, possible literal stars in her eyes as various semi-conscious patrons shamble around like the undead.  
  
"Amazing. It's so dirty. And smelly. And warm." Lavellan says.  
  
"That's what I thought, too." Merrill says from her other side. "I never thought I'd get used to it."  
  
"I forgot the Free Marches weren't wet." Lavellan says. "I miss the cold now. I don't think I could have started over all by myself in Kirkwall. _Wow_."  
  
"I didn't think I'd be able to either." Merrill says. "I didn't think I'd make a good Keeper, either. But here I am."  
  
Lavellan turns to Merrill, the stars are actually in her eyes now. Cullen rubs his temples and wishes to anyone listening that he didn't have to be here.  
  
"Cole would have loved it here." Lavellan sighs, "Everything is so interesting!"  
  
"It's for the best the boy didn't come." Blackwall says and Cullen agrees. They don't need Cole being _Cole_ in Kirkwall.  
  
It's bad enough that Sera disappeared as soon as their ship landed to find some of her, " _friends_ ", as she calls them. Cullen dreads having to report all of this back. Rather, he dreads the way Leliana's spies are going to report this back. Either he's going to be laughed at or yelled at and he's not looking forward to either.  
  
Cullen also didn't think he'd ever go back to Kirkwall, but here he is. And he's honestly surprised to find it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would.  
  
It could be, Cullen thinks with no small measure of wry amusement, the company he keeps these days, though.  
  
Lavellan and Merrill continue to chatter - impossibly chipper and bright for the dingy and dank, mildly mildewy interior of the Hanged Man.  
  
Lavellan leans over to whisper to him, "No one was actually hanged here, right?"  
  
"Oh, I know the answer to this one!" Merrill whispers back, tugging at Lavellan's arm. "It's an expression!"  
  
Cullen mainly focuses on ignoring the way the mystery meat stew bubbles on its own, and fishes most of the more suspicious mystery meats out of Lavellan's bowl while she isn't looking.  
  
Blackwall claps him on the shoulder.  
  
Blackwall brought actual, honest to god, field rations. He doesn't have to put up with this problem. Cullen doesn't know why he didn't think of that. He _lived_ here. He should have thought of that.  
  
"Cullen can I go to the undercity with Merrill to sneak into Hawke's estate?"  
  
"No. Absolutely not." Cullen says.  
  
Lavellan gives him a disappointed look, and he's not falling for this one. Maybe that's why the others sent him. Thus far he's the only one to successfully refuse her something.  
  
Lavellan then turns to Merrill and they start whispering conspiratorially. Cullen was not a Templar for half his life to miss the way people whisper in order to plan escapes.  
  
Cullen turns to Blackwall who signals some of their scouts to warn the city guard that the Herald of Andraste might possibly wander off into the more unsavory parts of the city. More unsavory than Lowtown's mildly respectable parts.  
  
Cullen does not envy Aveline's headache by the time Lavellan is through with Kirkwall.  
  
-  
  
"Let me guess," Cullen says without looking up - it's Cassandra, there's only one person Cullen knows who's capable of being aggressively quiet and _polite_ in the way they scrape their armored boot on the floor - "You don't like something about Varric."  
  
Cassandra pauses in the opened doorway before letting out a soft snort and letting it fall closed. He hears the slight scrape of the wood on the stone and he'll probably get that fixed sometime after they finish clearing rubble to make a hospital wing. Maybe. There are always more important things than his slightly crooked east facing door.  
  
"She's been sitting next to him all afternoon every day for the past week." Cassandra says, sitting in the chair by the training dummy Cullen's been using for knife practice whenever the paperwork makes him honestly consider assigning himself to mountain pass patrols for a few months at a time. "It's suspicious."  
  
"He's not going to corrupt her to the wonders of - whatever you're thinking of." Cullen says, reaching up without looking to accept the packet of new documents one of - he checks the seal - Josephine's runners just sent him.  
  
"I think he's teaching her dwarven idioms." Cassandra says, "This will not go well."  
  
"Does anything in any of our lives ever go well?" Cullen asks. "Name one time something in our combined lives went well."  
  
"I once saved the Divine's life." Cassandra says.  
  
"And now you're _here_." Cullen snorts.  
  
"There are worse places to be for both of us."  
  
They both ignore the hidden meanings behind that. Or the not so hidden ones, Cullen supposes.  
  
"There are worse things for her to be learning than idioms." Cullen says. "Really, this can only help us. Broadening her cultural horizons. Or something. Ask Josephine about it."  
  
"I still don't like it."  
  
"You just don't like him."  
  
"That also." Cassandra picks out a random book from the various strewn piles of - things - around his office. People come and they go but they tend to leave their things behind. Which is confusing because sometimes they're for him, sometimes they're for Josephine or Leliana. It's as if his office is also the post and lost and found at once. Cullen finds he doesn't half mind simply because at least this way he gets some sort of clue for when he needs to make himself scarce.  
  
It is never a good sign when peacock feathers come into play.


	194. Chapter 194

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

"Do you regret it?" She asks, watching as Lavellan flexes her hand. Restless. Everything about her seems - _edged_ , now. Where she was once energetic, she is now unnerving. Where she was once sweet she is now enchanting. Where she was once fidgeting, she is now restless. Something awakened that makes Josephine think of house cats that get lost. They go from soft, willing to sit on your lap and act as a mouser for you, to something hard and dangerous and intrinsically unknowable by the simple fact of their existence.  
  
Leliana says it's the other way around.  
  
She was _always_ unknowable, they just did not _know_ it until now.  
  
"Do I regret _him_ , is what you mean." Lavellan says, and her smile is a flash that sometimes makes Josephine want to flinch as much as it makes her want to take Lavellan's hand in her own and squeeze. Lavellan looks at her like she knows this, then looks away again. " _Never_. Not once. There is sorrow but there is no regret. I am me, not my past actions. Nor my future ones."  
  
"When did you become so wise?" Josephine asks her. When did you become so _hard_?  
  
"When I needed to be." Lavellan answers, a simple answer that makes Josephine remember the girl who skinned hares in snow and could not read or write.  
  
Here is a woman who could skin a wolf and undoes an entire court.  
  
She started this young - one and twenty, fresh.  
  
Lavellan's fingers curl, as if to make up for the lack of her left hand, her right hand has started pouring out static and frost and every sort of magic at every turn. A visible reference for the unknowable nature in her face.  
  
"And I was where I needed to be." Lavellan says, nodding. "I still do not believe in your Maker and Andraste. But it has been proven that my own gods were mortal. So they I cannot believe in either, not truly except in habit. The way some of you call on Andraste or the Maker without actually thinking about it. My would-be-gods are in my bones. I do not believe, I simply _am_. But Cassandra once said she believes in me, that I am what they needed. At the right place, at the right time. _This_ I believe. I do not regret."  
  
Lavellan holds out her hand, clear of magic.  
  
Josephine takes it.  
  
"Do _you_ regret it?" Lavellan asks, and it's like she knows the answer. It's like her eyes are smiling in the way her mouth used to. Soft, warm, dawn over mountains, sunset over forests.  
  
"No." Josephine says, and it is the absolute truth. "I could never regret this."  
  
I am a better person for having known all of you.  
  
-  
  
"One last gift, he holds it back." Cole whispers, "One last gift -  one last thing that only I can give her. She deserves so much more, I should give it to her. She gives it to herself with every breath. Noble. Nobility. Exalted. _Exaltation_."  
  
"Cole?" Lavellan tucks her face into the fold of her elbow, snuffling a little. "Cole?"  
  
_Yes_.  
  
Cole mimics the touch of his fingers, ghosting over the edge of her face.  
  
"Fen'enaste." Cole says, he says. Pride. "She asked for blessings. I could give it. But I will not - I am not like them. I am no pretender. I claim no throne."  
  
"Cole, what's wrong?"  
  
Passion of - doesn't know. Can't know. I grip this memory hard because he did not think to take it from me. He won't. She needs this. I am Cole. I am Compassion. I am elgar'falon. I am friend. I am _lethallin_.  
  
For her, for the Passion of - stars. Infinite in number. Memories, lives, possibilities. Glittering, gleaming, gloaming - gone and faded. Faded and fading. Not this one, not _this one_ Pride.  
  
I am keeping this one for her who keeps the sky.  
  
Cole brushes his fingers over her face again and her eyes are slits, sleepy, slow -  
  
I watch as she realizes, _understands_ , as I whisper words that are words to her and memories to me.  
  
"Solas? You found him?" She sits up, the light of her beacon-star-self-soul flashing in her hand as she grasps my arms. Not bound. I am _me_. I am free. I am Cole. She holds us all together, she holds me together. Safe. Secure. Sequestered - no.  
  
"One last gift but is it a gift if she does not know? She makes them _new_."  
  
"Where is he? What gift? Tell him I don't care about _gifts_ \- is he safe?"  
  
"It is her last tie to him. Souls run deeper than bodies, but this is her reminder that she was once more than one part." I say into the dark and her hand tentatively touches her face. "She was once  _of_ Lavellan and this is what made her so."  
  
"My vallaslin?" She runs her fingers over lines. "I don't understand."  
  
"She won't understand. I can't expect her to. She makes them _new_." I whisper, and the memory is ending because I could not hold it all.  
  
There is too much in Pride to hold.  
  
"He wanted to help you, but you didn't know it would be helping so he didn't. I am glad that he didn't. It would have hurt you to know."  
  
You should always be your own. You're too big for anyone to hold. How do you hold the person who holds the sky?  
  
The Passion of -'s face is sad. The lines fold together. It is an acceptable kind of sad. I know this, now. I cannot fix this sad, and she does not want it to be fixed, because it is all tied together in a knot of gentle hurt. Like feathers.  
  
I take her hands in mine.  
  
Don't be sad, _I_ am here. I am with you. We can remember him together. I won't forget him and I won't let them take his memory from you.  
  
"Thank you." She says because the rest of them are slowly letting him go.  
  
He will come back. It is known. I know. They do not.  
  
There is no place for Pride to disappear to, any longer.  
  
I know. If they had just given him a family -  
  
This isn't what he _wanted_.


	195. Chapter 195

"I suppose, that ultimately, it does not really matter. What I hoped and thought, I mean." Lavellan says, pressing her palms together. "But I was really, really, _really_ hoping that at least _one_ dog would like me."  
  
"Are we certain she isn't Ferelden born?" Leliana asks. "And then switched with a Free Marcher clan at birth? Something?"  
  
"I am sure that there will someday be a mabari for you." Cullen says.  
  
"Don't encourage her." Cassandra kicks the back of his leg. The man doesn't even wince.  
  
That's impressive.  
  
Josephine is very impressed. She wonders if that's part of Templar training, Hiding your pain. She would ask except sometimes the Commander can be somewhat intimidating to speak to. He's so very - well. _Himself_.  
  
Lavellan sighs, forlorn as she leans to one side then another, as if she were a heavy headed flower being blown in a breeze.  
  
Josephine used to wonder if their Inquisitor had some sort of spinal injury from when she was a child that caused that. Sometimes Josephine wonders if perhaps the rest of the world has some sort of spinal injury because they are _not_ like that. She makes it look like the most natural thing in the world. As if her spine were a flower's stem.  
  
"The Wardens are bringing their mabari." Cullen says, neatly sidestepping the next kick Cassandra aims at his legs by moving around the table to put a comforting hand on Lavellan's shoulder, just as her leaning swings her closer to him. "Perhaps one will have a litter, or one has already lost its Warden. As I recall, Surana's mabari was not hers originally."  
  
"It takes a lot to re-imprint." Leliana says. "Stop getting her hopes up."  
  
"I just really - _dogs_." Lavellan sighs, longingly, her swaying gradually stopping like an upside down pendulum that's lost momentum. "Do you think?"  
  
"Yes." Cullen replies, and if it were anyone else Josephine knows he'd be bringing out that dry humor he sometimes uses on his staff and recruits. But it isn't, it's her, so he's completely sincere when he says, "I do think."  
  
"Alright." Lavellan says, reaching out to fiddle with some of Leliana's unused map markers. "Do you think they'll be here soon? Do you think the Wardens would let me near their dogs? There are Dalish Wardens, aren't there? Do you think they have harts?"  
  
-  
  
"Passed out. Face first. Half on a bush." Dorian says to de Fer. "How is she alive? _How_? How has something - an apex predator, an enemy, a freak storm - not killed her already? Was this just acceptable for her growing up? Who never taught her otherwise? What is with southerners? Talking to strangers, accepting food from strangers, going off with unknown strangers, picking up things that aren't yours, putting things you find on the floor in your mouth, wearing no shoes, leaving all your doors unlocked - how did any of you survive? How is the south not one constant blood bath filled with decaying corpses of the stupid?"  
  
"Breathe, darling." Vivienne says, "And do be quiet. I know it's incredibly hard for you, but I am in a delicate stage of this potion."  
  
"And you need absolute silence in order to concentrate? Poor form, de Fer."  
  
"I could make this potion in my sleep as the world falls about our ears. Don't be ridiculous. And I just prefer it when _you_ , in specific, aren't talking. Something about every word that comes out of your mouth spoils the very air about you. It's almost as if your distastefulness is catching."  
  
Dorian snorts, moving to lean against her potion's table and watch her work.  
  
"Maybe you'll all grow immune with exposure. Have you tried using dragonling instead of wyvern?"  
  
"One can only hope." Vivienne hums. "Dragonling is more expensive, too good to waste on such a common place tincture."  
  
"And wyvern isn't?" Dorian rolls his eyes, examining his nails. "Back to the topic at hand?"  
  
"You didn't just leave her in the bushes, did you? It does paint such an unsavory picture."  
  
"Of the Inquisitor as a drunkard or the Inquisitor as someone who does naughty things in bushes? Or has naughty things done _to_ her in bushes?"  
  
Vivienne does not dignify this with an answer. Her potion lets out a displeased puff of smoke in response. Vivienne gives the small pot a hard rap with frost covered knuckles. It immediately desists.  
  
"Of course I moved her." Dorian says as he watches the vaguely purple smoke disperse into the air. "What sort of friend would I be otherwise?"  
  
"I hope no one saw you. The Tevinter Altus carrying off the unconscious Inquisitor from the bushes to his quarters. And you wonder why Mother Giselle is always upset about you."  
  
"I don't wonder why. I _know._ She's just jealous that she couldn't get her claws into the Inquisitor's supple hide." Dorian replies, "And are you joking, de Fer? It's _Skyhold_. Everyone is always watching her, and everyone who isn't watching her is watching me. I'm just that dashing. I expect the rumors to escalate within the hour. How upset do you think the others will be at that?"  
  
"The poor ambassador is going to be pulling her hair out trying to stop them." Vivienne says.  
  
"Good thing you're making headache reliever, then, isn't it?"  
  
" _Modified_ headache reliever." Vivienne replies. "It's not quite ready for testing. That said - I think I'm going to give it to the apostate."  
  
"You're all apostates. There are no Circles."  
  
"The elven apostate." Vivienne clarifies, "Don't be daft."  
  
"Do give me a full day's warning. I want to plan how I can watch this." Dorian says. "And start making bets."  
  
-  
  
"I am here to give you a warning." Cullen says, marching straight up to Bull and looking him in the eye.  
  
"What'd he do?" Krem says.  
  
"He found out about the Chantry sisters." Rocky says. "I bet you he did."  
  
"Nah, this is probably something else. He's the military arm, wouldn't it be Montilyet if it were about the Chantry? I bet it's about the dragon blood. What do you think, Grim?"  
  
" _Hn_."  
  
"Not about what _he_ did." Cullen says, turning to them with slight exasperation on his face, "But all those things do have my curiosity piqued. Unwise as that may be. It's about what _she_ did - _is_ doing."  
  
Bull tilts his head, something in his shoulders relaxing a little, stance easing and mouth widening.  
  
"What'd the little Boss do?"  
  
"She found a certain book." Cullen says, "That contains some creative language when she was rummaging about. As she does."  
  
"As she does." The Chargers agree in various states of nodding and gesturing.  
  
"And she is questioning some of the - shall we say, _diction_ used." Cullen says and he's slowly drawing on his Commander voice. Which means - certain, dubious things. "And because I don't want the castle being blown up from the inside. I'm directing her to you. I don't need her going to Cassandra or Josephine or Dorian with this. Or worse, _Sera_. I'm sending her to you because I trust you to be professional about it and to - well. Not lose your composure."  
  
"An awful lot of trust." Krem says. "I'm surprised you don't handle this yourself."  
  
Bull's smile is widening but it's looking a little strained. Like he _knows_ what's coming.  
  
"What kind of diction are we talking about here?"  
  
Cullen takes in a breath like he's about to yell out commands. And then says in a completely steady voice.  
  
"He placed his purple helmeted warrior of love within her brown harbor."  
  
Krem has to give the man credit.  
  
Krem is fairly sure he would've broken something if he had to say that kind of bullshit out loud.  
  
"Where did she find this book?"  
  
"In the barracks." Cullen says, tilting his head a little. "If she doesn't wander overly, she should be here within three minutes. Good luck and may the Maker watch over you. I'll try to get Josephine to give you a bonus."  
  
"Can it be a bonus in alcohol?" Bull asks, "And are we sure you can't send her to Solas instead? Didn't she adopt him as a surrogate guardian or something?"  
  
"No." Cullen says, "Because I already tried that and he looked at me like he could see the actual matter within my skull, and could imagine how it would look _outside_ of my skull. Then he subtly suggested you. And this is also for you."  
  
Cullen hands Bull an incredibly large bottle of unmarked _something_.  
  
"You're going to need that."  
  
"Never let it be said the Inquisition doesn't equip their people." Stitches says.


	196. Chapter 196

Her skull, her skin is delicate, fragile - and he knows them to be light just by touching them. His thumb strokes a cautious streak over the thin, thin and sensitive skin just underneath her ear.  
  
Lavellan makes a soft croon-purr, like a cat's _purrup_ , eyes slitted and slowly closing. She slowly turns in her crouch and drops down, her head resting on Bull's thigh and a few seconds later her body goes lax - still curled - in a light doze.  
  
Bull continues to lightly draw little circles with his thumb, petting and idly feeling out the traces of her vallaslin, the delicate and slightly raised, shiny and smooth lines. Half scars half tattoos.  
  
When he did this to Dalish, she went bright red, set the ground on fire, then turned around and punched him with a giant block of ice. And when he did this to Skinner she jumped and he almost lost a horn.  
  
For Dalish it felt good, arousing. For Skinner it felt uncomfortable, irritating. He supposes for Lavellan it also feels good - comforting? It's different for each of them, he guesses. All he knows is that for almost every elf he's ever met, this spot is some kind of spot.  
  
Lavellan's breath is warm and comes in soft little puffs over his thigh.  
  
"Domestic." Krem mutters, sitting on the bench to Bull's left. "And you always thought you'd be a shit parent."  
  
Bull gives Krem the eye.  
  
"Don't you have pining to be doing over there?" Bull says, careful to keep his voice low.  
  
Krem smirks, because he's an asshole. Bull is pretty sure Krem was an asshole before they met, but maybe being with the Chargers just made it worse. Better. More _present_.  
  
"Careful. Don't wake the girl." Krem says, sipping at some ale, just watching them. "She'd just look at you with those sad eyes and you'd feel guilty for ages. Ask Rocky about it. I think he's still too nervous to drink deep mushroom based anything in front of her again."  
  
"Why, what'd he do?"  
  
Krem hums. "As lieutenant I have to manage their trust and yours on a need to know basis and I've decided that you don't need to know. Probably best for everyone involved that way."  
  
Bull firmly decides not to _worry_.  
  
The Iron Bull _doesn't_ worry.  
  
Lavellan mumbles something about - possibly - Saturnalia in her sleep, he can feel the edge of her lip and the line of her jaw moving against his leg. Lavellan's hand makes grasping motions, and Bull holds back the shiver from seeing the Anchor.  
  
That thing is just wrong. So fucking wrong.  
  
Her little hand presses knuckles against his thigh and she goes back to sleep.  
  
"Maybe she's more like a kitten." Krem muses. "She does play with an awful lot of string."  
  
"She's no mouser." Bull says.  
  
"If she were a mouser she'd be a terrible one. What mouser makes _friends_ with the mice?"  
  
-  
  
It's here, stranded in the mountains and afraid and hunted and lost and utterly alone that Lavellan's talents, her background, truly shines.  
  
Solas watches as Lavellan watches them all. She would have made an excellent Keeper. Losses and injury are much lower than they would be otherwise, without Lavellan's knowledge and experience.  
  
Lavellan covers their tracks well, makes fires fast and keeps them going. She keeps a steady supply of warm water available and she manages rations well. She balances leading and following, scouting and supplying, listening and ordering without ever leaving a single footprint in the snow.  
  
There is _merit_ to this da'len.  
  
Lavellan appears at Solas' side, a gentle swell and push of mana that he cautiously answers with a glancing touch of his own.  
  
She offers him a smile. He offers her a castle, though she does not know that, yet.  
  
She is worthy, he has decided. She is worthy of the place that was once his. The place where he built the Veil is the place where she will work to repair it. It is only fitting. And he can protect them better there. Even after all these years, the ground remembers. The world remembers.  
  
Lavellan's smile fades as her eyes flick over and she's gone, loping off towards Blackwall. Solas watches as the mana gathers around her hand, and she smacks him hard across the face.  
  
Solas uses magic to throw his hearing -  
  
"No sleeping." Lavellan says, taking Blackwall's face between her hands. "Focus. One foot in front of the other. Stay awake."  
  
Solas smiles without moving his mouth, and feeds more mana into the fire at the end of his staff.  
  
-  
  
"Let's make a wager." de Fer says and that automatically means that Dorian can't trust her. But also -  
  
"On what?" Because Dorian is already living at the end of the world, what else could he possibly lose? He's here in the south where templars eat lyrium, lyrium is blighted, you can trip over high dragons every other week, and dogs are supposedly intelligent. Not to mention the _bears_.  
  
Instead of answering, the enchanter raises a finger and points out her balcony window.  
  
"If the wager is on me jumping and surviving I'm going to say no." Dorian says, but gets up to look anyway.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
"Thirty gold, written write ups of any three spells of the winner's choosing, and first call on the next shipment of wine to Skyhold." Dorian says, reaching his hand back.  
  
Vivienne hums.  
  
"Add in note taking and ingredient preparation for a month."  
  
"Done."  
  
Vivienne's hand is warm when it clasps his and they shake on it. She comes to lean against the railing next to him.  
  
"Your bet is on?"  
  
"Varric getting the absolute _shit_ beaten out of him." Dorian replies, because that is the bloody Champion of Kirkwall. Did Varric think he was being subtle by putting Hawke on the battlements?  
  
"The Inquisitor will stop that from happening." Vivienne says, "Since when could our dear Seeker disobey our darling Lavellan? And if she did it now, with the Inquisitor freshly titled, it would undermine her authority."  
  
"Only if the Inquisitor finds it happening." Dorian says. "I suppose Varric could just run for it."  
  
"Where? Everywhere else has demons." Vivienne replies, "Even if he did run, do you honestly think that would stop Cassandra?"  
  
"True enough." Dorian says, and now all he has to do is keep Lavellan from stumbling on Cassandra going to beat the life out of Varric with her bare hands.  
  
"You ought not to meddle." Vivienne says.  
  
"As if _you_ weren't going to send her on a convenient errand that just happens to pass by the inevitable confrontation." Dorian retorts. "Please. Meddling is in the blood. It comes with being rich and noble. Even _Ferelden_ got that right."


	197. Chapter 197

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

Cullen doesn’t quite hold his breath when he introduces Mia and her family to Lavellan, but he thinks Mia is and for once he can say he’s better at something than she is. Cullen’s long past his awkward-awe stage with her.

“You’re missing an arm.” Mia’s youngest boy says, pointing and Mia looks like she’s about to either faint or cuff the boy upside the head, Cullen internally laughs and glances at Lavellan in the corner of his eye.

Lavellan gasps, and looks down at her right hand.

“What do you mean? It’s right here!” She says, holding out her right hand to him.

“Not that one,” The boy says, ignoring his mother’s hissing of his name and attempts to hold him back by the shoulders as he approaches Lavellan. “The other one. The left one.”

Lavellan turns her head towards the stump, and there’s a flash of true _surprise_ there for a moment that makes Cullen’s insides churn hot and cold. Then her face lights up, “Goodness! Where did it go? I must have misplaced it. I’m terribly forgetful. That’s why Cullen is always looking after me. I’d lose my own head if I weren’t always using it to talk.”

Because the phrase _if it weren’t attached_ means very little when you lose something that _was_.

Lavellan and the children go off to play because no matter what happens, there is some part of her that will always be summer and laughter and diving pools. Cullen knows this like he knows the song of lyrium. It’s something that’s been ingrained into his bones. She does not falter.

“She’s not what I expected.” Mia says as they go inside, leaving the children to their games. Cullen casts a second glance over his shoulder, habit from spending so long doing so – though he knows Lavellan is more than capable of caring for herself. Even without the Anchor.

“She rarely ever is.” Cullen says, “Did you know she asked me about templar vows? My vows, to be specific.”

Mia snorts, “I bet you deserved every single awkward moment she ever brought on your daft head.”

“That’s an awful lot of punishment.” Cullen answers, “And I think you’re being biased.”

They slip into companionable silence. It has been good to be here. Cullen can see how this could become home if he let it. He doesn’t know if he can, though.

He’s spent too long doing other things – calling no place home. People and titles, suits of armor and roles, rather than buildings and places.

And for a long time – though in hindsight, compared to his other role-title-positions, it was rather short – Skyhold was the building and place he tentatively called _home_.

Cullen’s body feels exposed, too light, and he moves too fast and with too much force without his armor. His nephews and nieces, at least think that he’s quite impressive. Though it’s mostly because he has a mabari and can use a sword, more than anything that has to do with his role in the world.

It’s humbling and comfortable, in a way.

Cullen sometimes thinks he could make a home in fields and farms and cows and hens and fences and plows.

It is a nice dream.

Cullen clasps his hands together and part of his body will always be tuned towards listening for troops, for his charges – so he automatically catches Lavellan’s voice as she plays with the children outside. Cullen relaxes. She had left Sera and Varric some time ago, he wasn’t sure where she would go from there. He had half hoped that she would return to the almost empty remains of Skyhold.

The people may have left, but no one else has claimed it.

Cullen doesn’t think anyone else _could_ claim Skyhold. Seat of the Inquisition. Home of the latest and last Inquisitor of Thedas.

Cole once said that Skyhold welcomes her, loves her. Cullen believes him.

Cullen has heard _rumors_ of what has happened to Skyhold once they left.

Strange things happen to those who step foot uninvited. Cullen has not gone back himself, but he knows that Lavellan has once. She had to in order to pick up the rest of her animal charges.

He wonders where they all are, now.

Cullen shudders to think of dracolisks and her – bog unicorn, wandering the Ferelden Frostbacks.

He is pleased, though, that he got to see her so soon. She’s like wind – you can’t know when she will come, and then she will go again just abruptly. But she is always refreshing and always missed.

“She’s a good girl.” Mia says, as they prepare supper. Cullen wonders if she’s going to call over Branson and Rosalie to meet Lavellan, also. “Sweet.”

There are a lot of things Mia isn’t saying underneath that. A lot of things Cullen can understand.

“Yes.” Cullen says, because he understands that terrible things happen to good people and it can’t be helped.

-

Lavellan is crouched next to a pool, staring at her reflection and humming at whatever she sees. Blackwall figures she’s good for now, and turns around to deal with the mess that is Sera and Vivienne, and wonders how he’s supposed to sort this out.

There’s only so much arguing that Lavellan is going to look over before she gets upset and attempts to make them get along. It won’t go well. Blackwall will even wager that it will end with someone – Lavellan – crying or about to cry and someone hurt.

Probably him if he has to physically hold someone back. By someone Blackwall means probably Sera.

Blackwall wonders if he should distract Lavellan and send her chasing after some nugs or rams while Sera and Vivienne deal with the worst of their vitriol without Lavellan to witness it.

But then someone might actually end up dead and Lavellan will _definitely_ be crying and someone – probably the murderer – will be hurt.

Blackwall runs a hand down his face and wishes that Bull or Cassandra were picked to go along instead. Then he realizes that Bull and Cassandra probably knew this was going to happen which is why they _aren’t_ here.

Damn.

The two are getting increasingly closer to actually trading blows – verbal of physical, Blackwall isn’t sure. They’re holding back because Lavellan is still in sight but that might not hold out for very long.

Blackwall turns and sighs in relief.

“Oh, would you look at that? Hakkonites across the river coming right at us.” Blackwall says and in the far corner of his eye he sees motion that means Lavellan has sprung up and is ready to fight, and on the other side of him Vivienne and Sera stop their fighting and focus on their new opponent.

Thank the Maker for murderous fanatics.


	198. Chapter 198

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser spoilers.

The day before they're set to leave Halamshiral to return to Skyhold one last time, Lavellan calls them into her room, one by one.  
  
She calls Varric after Cole. The guards at either side of her door quietly wave him in, subdued and long faced. When he goes in, Cole and Lavellan are standing close. Cole leans down to press his forehead to hers, their noses touch. His hands earnestly hold hers and they murmur soft things to each other.  
  
Lavellan pulls back, takes her hand from him to sweep back the hair from his eyes and kisses his forehead. A soft, long kiss, and when she draws back she smiles, a soft, long smile, and gently swipes her thumb down between his brows, over the line of his nose.  
  
A blessing, a gift, and a message Varric wasn't meant to hear.  
  
Cole lowers his head, and takes up his hat and slips past Varric, and in a message he is meant to hear, Cole whispers -  
  
"She _wants_ you to _know_."  
  
Varric waits and Lavellan looks at him. His mind slowly slips back a few years, to snow and demons - Solas and not-yet-Inquisition soldiers. Her hand raised, anchor almost blinding, and the raw newness of her face. _You named your crossbow?_  
  
Lavellan holds her hand out to him, and of course he goes to her to take it.  
  
The girl's conditioned them.  
  
Varric squeezes her hand in his and she looks down at him and slowly bends down. She kisses his cheek, a soft, warm, and somehow sad thing. Delicately placed, like she knows exactly where to put her mouth to cause the most damage.  
  
"Thank you." She says, drawing back, her hand slowly threading her fingers through his and squeezing. "You were kind."  
  
Somehow that one sentence throws up an entire ocean of warning flags in Varric's brain.  
  
It sounds like goodbye, it sounds like something empty and hollow, it sounds utterly sincere, it sounds like something that stops a heart. It sounds like some sort of secret or hidden meaning or something.  
  
Varric doesn't know what to say to that and she probably doesn't expect him to say anything.  
  
In his hand there is a small bag tied with string, He experimentally squeezes it, and feels small things inside moving around. Seeds. He's willing to bet if he opened it, he'd find poppy seeds.  
  
She smiles like she can read his mind and his heart kicks in his chest.  
  
" _Poppy_." He says. She shakes her head, no.  
  
The warning flags are on fire, now.  
  
Varric swears to himself that he's going to ask her what she means when they get back to Skyhold.  
  
(Former Inquisitor Lavellan, last of the Lavellan Clan of the Dalish, and latest and last Inquisitor of Thedas, First-Thaw of the Avaar, and noble of Kirkwall never returns to Skyhold.)  
  
-  
  
"And _you_ ," Dorian rounds on Blackwall, "What are you doing here?"  
  
"A man can't stand where he pleases?"  
  
"No. Not in _this_ castle. Full of spies and crazed soldiers who've suffered one too many blows to the head. No." Dorian narrows his eyes at the small crowd of people he almost considers friends if not for how damned insufferable they are gathers. "Are you joking?"  
  
"No, I'm _Cole_." Cole says, helpfully from where he's perched on the rail of the training ring, a basket full of medical supplies in his lap because he's sweet like that.  
  
One cannot be mad at Cole. Unless you're Sera or Vivienne, in which case those two can be mad at anything.  
  
Mostly they're mad at each other.  
  
Dorian digresses.  
  
"This is unnecessary."  
  
"You can't just beat things with a stick whenever you run out of mana." Cullen says.  
  
"Watch me." Dorian replies and eyes Sutherland warily. "Also why is it him?"  
  
"It's good training for you both." Cullen replies and the worst part is that Cullen is actually doing this in earnest. He genuinely has Dorian and Sutherland's benefit at heart. It's just awful really. Dorian would almost be able to take this better if he were doing this for a laugh.  
  
Dorian sighs and examines the wooden sword in his hand.  
  
"I don't see you make our dear Inquisitor train with a sword."  
  
The assembled crowd makes various sounds of derision and worry.  
  
"She can handle herself without the sword." Cullen says, "Recall that she's been doing hand to hand combat training with Bull and knife fighting with Skinner and Cole for the better part of a year. And that she's Dalish."  
  
Which really says a lot, considering.  
  
"You let _her_ beat things with sticks." Dorian says, wrinkling his nose and taking an idle swing. It feels incredibly wrong. Hopefully he doesn't jab himself in the face with it.  
  
"She's better at it than you." Bull says, "Stop jabbering and start training. I don't have all day to watch this disaster."  
  
"Yeah, he's got hangovers to plan for." Stitches says.  
  
"And blades to polish."  
  
"And tea parties to have with Josephine." Everyone startles, with a few dozen curse words thrown in for good measure. Lavellan looks around at them. "What?"  
  
"It's not a fucking tea party, boss." Bull says.  
  
"How?" Krem rounds on Dalish and Skinner. " _How_?"  
  
The two shrug and snicker.  
  
"Can I join too?" Lavellan asks, one leg already dangling over the fence as she attempts to climb into the ring. Bull reaches over Rocky and Cole, and picks her up by the back of her neck.  
  
"No. This is all Pavus. You don't want to steal his spotlight, do you boss?" Bull says, tossing her up and catching her around the waist before lifting her so she can scramble onto his shoulders.  
  
"No." She says and Dorian presses his knuckles to his forehead and promises himself that he wont poison half the hold in revenge.  
  
When he looks up Cullen is looking at him with an arched eyebrow.  
  
"Fine, fine." Dorian sighs, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. Make a fool of the Tevinter for morale. _Fine_!"  
  
"You're not the only Tevinter." Krem calls out, "Just the only one who sucks at beating the shit out of things without a stick."  
  
"Thank you, Tevinter B. You are, as ever, unhelpful."  
  
-  
  
Lavellan laughs, delighted, as she dashes about Skyhold's lower courtyard, discovering whatever mysteries its last tenants left behind.  
  
"Stables!' She says, flying past Cullen and some scouts with a gust of wind that almost blows papers away. Cullen just calmly  puts his hand down on said papers and continues talking.  
  
"Used to it?" Varric asks and Cullen snorts.  
  
"The Circle teaches one much about excited mages and paperwork." Cullen replies and Lavellan comes running back with some harts trotting after her. "Wait for Dennet."  
  
"Yes." Lavellan answers, jumping up with her hands in the air and waving at someone on the castle walls that Varric can't see from here. "Stables!"  
  
Lavellan jumps onto the back of one of the harts, chattering at them all the while as they meander over in the general direction of somewhat dilapidated and rotting building that's to house the Inquisition's main mounts in the future.  
  
Dennet has mostly been setting things up with the mounts outside of Skyhold, where there was more room and generally less noise if one of them took a shit wherever.  
  
The harts, as always, have faithfully stayed at their mistress' side.  
  
Lavellan disappears into the stable itself, the harts calmly standing around the stable entrances like extremely large and horned guard dogs.  
  
Lavellan appears on the roof of the stable a few minutes later holding up what could either be an extremely mangy cat, a raccoon, or some sort of previously unknown animal.  
  
Varric looks at Cullen.  
  
Cullen is determinedly looking down at the papers in front of him while his scouts and soldiers wait, expectantly.  
  
Cullen sighs.  
  
"Rylen?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"She's found something again, hasn't she?"  
  
"Should I answer that with the _truth_ , sir?"  
  
"Is it bigger than the last one?"  
  
"About the same, maybe smaller if it had a bath and a trim."  
  
Varric is beginning to like this Rylen, and he's also beginning to worry about what else Lavellan's found.  
  
"Go have someone convince her to put it with the rest of them." Cullen sighs. "And remind her to wash her hands."  
  
"So what's it like being a parent?" Varric asks as Rylen issues orders to a pair of unfortunate scouts, who know they're unfortunate by the looks on their faces and the looks of relief on everyone else's.  
  
"What's it like being the favorite uncle?" Cullen returns, and Varric wonders what the hell that means.  
  
Then a few minutes later Lavellan comes up to him and brandishes a dirty, smelly, hissing, clawed thing into his face and smiles at him.  
  
The two scouts from earlier stand behind her looking harried and somewhat confused as to how they got here.  
  
"For you!" Lavellan says. "To help keep you warm at night!"  
  
Varric gets it and swears at Cullen in his head. But he takes the damned thing because how do you say no to her face, and hopes it doesn't have a disease.


	199. Chapter 199

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First section takes place post Trespasser.

One last time, she stands at the edge of the bridge of Skyhold. She looks up at the place that once was hers, will always be hers. Because Skyhold loves her, more than anything in the way things that cannot move love. Forever and always. Skyhold will carry her through the ages, Skyhold will not forget. The first elf to claim it in years. The first to care in centuries.

Inquisitor Lavellan will never return to Skyhold. She cannot return. It is more than that the Inquisition is gone, it is that her heart hurts. Skyhold is not what it once was. It is a tender place, a memory looked upon with sorrow.

A wealth of sorrows. A wealth of joys. A wealth of memories.

Wells upon wells.

She cannot return, so she left first and everyone thought she would be there when they got back to take it all away but she was not and they could not find her. They were afraid but I told them not to be.

She will not be returning.

Not where she could watch. Not where they could see.

The passion of – stars? Is it still stars?

Yes.

Dimmer and brighter at once, the way stars look when they are near the edge of existence.

She is still The Passion of –.

They did not understand how she could leave it all behind – her clothes, her weapons, her things, her animals, her books. All the gifts given to her. Her doll, her flowers, the wooden carvings made by hands sworn to her, the innumerable things given because of love.

They do not understand.

It hurts her. I can see. I know.

She could not watch them take it away – dismantling the chairs, extinguishing the forge, the trails upon trails and chains of caravans leaving when they used to call her hearth home. She was a Keeper of this Clan and now she lost this clan, too. Was it her fault?

“No.”

She does not smile, this new Passion of –.

I do not take her hand. She needs this one.

We walk. It hurts her, every step jostles the weeping, wet, still wailing wound inside and outside.

I go inside and open the gate myself for her because there is no one left to do it. Skyhold is empty. Not even the furniture we found when we came here is left. Everything – cleaned out. The garden is rampant, the wind is free, and the sky weighs down.

She couldn’t come back to the place where her heart healed only to be broken again. She couldn’t come back to the hearth she was forced to abandon.

She stands in the courtyard and breathes and she won’t go a single step further. Not to see the peach tree we planted, together – a man who was trying to be a man again, a man who thought he would never be human, himself, whole, a man who was trying to shake off the chains not knowing that he was really just holding them to his chest – bringing us a shovel and explaining how deep to dig and when to water because at his roots he is roots and soil and good growing things even if he doesn’t believe it anymore. She does not go to see the empty tavern that still feels warm to sit on the cushions where she and a woman who stood opposite her but loved her all the same ate cookies that were named for Pride, Love, the Inquisition, Friendship, _Us_.

She does not go to see any of it, because her heart is already broken and she can’t hold the pieces together like this in the flood and tidal wave so she can only stay on the shore as the waves ripple to soft stops and whispers at her feet.

“One last time.” She whispers, “Will you come with me?”

 _Yes_ , the world answers, because the world has always been hers.

He would have given it. They all would have given their own.

She would never take it because that’s not what she wanted. She _already had one_. One she built all on her own.

They did not leave because they could not make them leave. So they come out, now. Slowly. They have been waiting for her.

The stags walk like Kings and Princes, heads held high, shoulders back, steady. And with them come the soft, young fawns and does that were given as gifts as well. The miniature deer that Vivienne gave her once. The nugs – Rex the brown leading the larger battle nugs. The bog unicorn who refused to go with Blackwall even though Blackwall genuinely tried to make him go even though Blackwall was not fond of him as a mount, he was given by her and thus he was important, she would want him to be taken care of, why won’t you go?

The racoons. The possums. The mice. The sleepy eyed cats. The mabari and other dogs who truly loved her and chose her above all others.

The birds that were hers.

They come, and they wait and she breathes a shuddering wave of a sigh and closes her eyes.

They would always follow. She was Love. She is Love. Now, now is when I take her hand. Her breath shivers. Together we turn and we walk away.

One last time. Skyhold will always be hers. No force will ever claim it again, this I know. I tell her. Her mouth wobbles. _Thank you_.

Yes, I whisper back. Always, yes.

-

“What’s it _for_ though?” She asks, and Cullen doesn’t exactly know how to answer so he just turns to Josephine and gives her a _look_.

Poor, helpless man, Leliana thinks.

“It’s a gift. You are familiar with the concept.” Leliana replies.

Lavellan holds the little bauble in her hands, tentatively rolling it back and forth across her cupped palms.

“Yes.” She says, slowly. “But I didn’t do anything. It’s not my name day or anything.”

“You don’t have to _do_ anything to get a present.” Josephine says. “One of the soldiers saw it and thought of you, and gave it to the Commander to give to you.”

“Just because?”

“Just because.”

Lavellan holds up the round, glittering stone between her fingers.

“It’s beautiful.” She says. “What do I do? Am I to give something back? What is appropriate to return? Do I owe a favor?”

“It’s a _gift_.” Leliana says.

“But I didn’t _do_ anything.” Lavellan frowns, a tic of nervous anxiety building in her voice. “You don’t get gifts unless you _do_ something.”

One could argue that Lavellan never _stops_ doing anything for anyone. Leliana does not point this out.

“I’ve never gotten a gift from someone just _because_.” Lavellan frowns. “It’s always something I need, or because I did something, or because it’s my name day and even then it’s still things I need. Like clothes or tools or materials for weapons and things. Food.”

Lavellan rubs her thumb over the stone.

“Well now you have.” Leliana says.

“Do you like it?” Josephine asks, hand touching Lavellan’s elbow.

“I do.” Lavellan says, fingers closing over it and holding the stone to her chest. “Please thank him for me.”

“I will.” Cullen says, nodding his head.


	200. Chapter 200

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Inquisition, after Inquisition, and after Trespasser respectively.

“I’m here.” She says, sinking to her knees in soft, spongy and overgrown moss among trees. Bark and branches weave and tower over her, arms to shelter her grief. “I came. _I came for you_.”

Her hands touch the ground, gently brushing the lingering remnants of pain. She knows him. She _knows him_. He is her other face. This is where he last was. This is where he lay. This is where he left – where he was taken from her.

Too soon. It is always too soon.

There is no word to describe this hurt, this pain, this sundering of self. No wonder under or above the heavens to explain what she has lost – without seeing, without knowing.

“I knew.” She whispers, because she felt it when he left, when he was taken, she felt it in that indescribable place deep within herself.

She closes her eyes, and her hair frames, narrows her field of vision to this spot on the ground. No blood, no outline to demark it as special other than the feeling in her blood, her bones, her mana, her _soul_ that screams of loss and sorrow and grief and suffering.

“My essential self,” She whispers, tears burning at the corners of her eyes, hot and painful like so much fire, “Forgive me.”

It was I who killed you by leaving, she thinks. I should have been here. I should have been with you. We should have never been apart.

There is no shame in this grief, so she does not wipe her face. The anchor flickers and she can see the barest and faintest trails of magic from between her splayed fingers, pressed to the ground.

“This is your fault.” She whispers, eyes focused on the ground, heart pumping useless blood into her body when her soul has already been taken. “If there was no Conclave, if this did not happen, I would not have had to go – stay, _leave_. This is your fault.” The anchor says nothing. The woods say nothing. Her soul is silent and absent.

“I came to you – running.” She says, and her bones ache from such fast changing of shapes. To escape Skyhold -

She had to _escape_. Prisoner, in the hold. They would  not let her come to her soul’s side. They would not let her see. _She had to_.

\- she shed the skin of elf and became raven. One among dozens in Leliana’s aviary, and flew in the morning with them. For speed, once she was out of sight and away from Skyhold’s normal routes, she changed in a wolf. Silent as the moon, swift as shooting stars, she ran across the Frostbacks until she found the shores of the Waking Sea.

There she transformed herself back into an elf, and hid among Inquisition ships, then became a raven again and pretended in a cage.

Once they were in the Free Marches, she was a doe. Running, leaping, racing, _my face, I come for you, my face, my self_.

Now she is woman once more, naked as the day she was born and just as empty.

No – not as empty. He was with her when she was born. He was already there, waiting. She cannot remember a time when he was not in this world.

“It’s not fair. Just because you were born first doesn’t mean you have to leave me so soon.” She whispers, nails making slow tracks in the soil. “What do I do without you?”

He would tell her to go back, her place is with the Inquisition, now. Lavellan is gone, she is the remains. The Inquisition stands, she is their Keeper.

“Please.” She curls over the ground, where his body was, and her heart yearns and wants and _she wants, she yearns_ and there is no answer. No response. “ _Please_.”

She loves him, she will always love him, because he is her self, reflected into another body and I understand this but she forgets -

“You are whole in yourself.” I remind her, quietly, carefully gently because the Iron Bull always says not to wake dreamers and she was dreaming this entire time, hoping for some different outcome to wake up to. “He is in you and you are in him, you died when he died but you are also still alive.”

“You shouldn’t have come.” She says.

“I will always come.” I reply. “I can’t leave you.”

“Not when I’m suffering.” She sighs, and her body pools with grief. “This is a suffering you cannot fix.”

She looks up at me and her eyes are black and red and weeping, a rain of sorrow upon her sun-seeking face.

She reaches for me. The Passion of – stars, falling and fading and dimming.

I go to her, and she kisses me softly, forehead, eyelids, cheeks, nose, chin, corners of the mouth, center. “Take it to him.”

He is not a spirit, I do not tell her, I cannot go find the dead. I do not tell her this because she does not want to hear it and she already knows.

“Yes.” I tell her, because she taught me that sometimes you need to lie. I disappear from sight but I stay and now she can pretend to be alone again. Like she wanted. But she knew I was with her the entire time. I am the wall of daggers that replace the wall of halla in her sleep. I am the wall that protects her in dreams, I am the body that holds her in waking when she cries.

She weeps, she holds the ground. There is absence, silence, and I do not watch. Her grief is private, singular to herself and her lost soul. I am not sorry that I followed.

I will bring her home, to you. I will bring her home.

-

“I came back.” I say, and I slowly sit in the cradle of roots at the base of a tree, moss and sunlight. The anchor flickers, lazy and content. “I came back.”

I will always know the place I left him, where he left this world. I would know it, and I am drawn to it. As the anchor draws demons like a beacon, this place draws me. My new North.

I close my eyes, and I feel him linger, some place I cannot reach. Not yet. Soon, perhaps. Soon.

(I am coming, my face, my self. I am coming and you will be upset that I followed you so soon, but I do not think it is in my hands to control. Or perhaps, it is better to say – it is my hand that controls it. Just not myself. It is no longer my hand.)

“Perhaps the relic was Falon’din’s.” I muse, “And he, knowing the pain of separation from Dirthamen, wishes to reunite us?”

A breeze, fingertips on the back of my neck, the impression of squinted eyes, a fond shake of the head. My heart aches. It bleeds. It bruises, violent violet.

 _Come back to me_.

“The sky is healed, I seal rifts across Thedas – I have seen beautiful things, amazing things. I have gone to Kirkwall, and I have seen the place it began. I have gone to Ferelden and spoken with the King,  lover of the Warden Commander, remover of the curse of the wolves. I have gone to Halamshiral, our stolen home. It is decadent and obscene. I have seen the Dales, the Dirth, and I have even gone to the lost Temple of Mythal. There is more sorrow in that place than you could ever imagine.”

Sunlight glitters, and a bird sings in the distance. I hear the quiet movement of my hart in a clearing, patient and grieving for his own lost kin.

“It is done.” I whisper, and close my eyes, leaning against the bark. It is not done, there is more to do. It is never ending, it seems. They want. I want.

What the individual wants is not always what the good of the whole needs. I know. I still – _want_.

I curl into the bark and bitter pain leaks through me.

“One of them – to my face – said that we were sin.” I whisper, as if being quiet will dilute the insult, make it unreal. “Accused us of propagation of the soul. Perversion and heresy. I could have killed him.” My hands are restless claws and the bitter black threatens to return. “I should have. I did not. It was in my _right_.”

How dare he? They do not know – they have not right to judge – to throw that insult into the open. _The sin of souls_. Never. I would never. We would never – have never -

He is my _self_. We are _the same_. We could never do what we are accused of.

Bared teeth in the back of my mind, a wolf’s snarl. Yes. I curl around the memory of you, I know you because I am you. Your reactions are mine.

“I won.” I touch my fingers to long healed scratches, the pain was good. The pain was proof. My truth is stronger. My honor is stronger. _I am stronger because I am more than my body, I am him and I am me and we are one, we are the same_.

My heart hurts.

I am one.

-

This new self of mine, I am not used to. I am missing parts of me, I have been missing parts of me. Now this body reflects it.

My soul, gone. My clan, scattered or dead. My hahren, no longer himself but a stranger. My hearth, gone cold.

“Mahanon.” I sink to the ground over where his body once lay, fading. I too have faded. I touch my fingers to where his heart was. “Mahanon.”

I close my eyes.

My body aches with emptiness and wrong doing. Wrong being done to me.

It hurts. But I continue, I have no choice.

“Stay.” I whisper to myself, and the temptation to remain is strong.

“You don’t have to anymore.” Cole says from the shadow of the trees. “You don’t have to do anything anymore. No one is asking.”

“I thought you left.”

“One last time she says, and I went but that does not mean I cannot continue. You do not ask, but I will follow anyway. Because this is what love is. It means not leaving you. It means seeing and not ignoring. I see you. I see your pain. I won’t ignore it.”

“You would love him,” I whisper to the place Mahanon should be. “You would love him, I love him. He is ours. Friend, fellow in pain and loss.”

I am no longer Inquisitor. I am no longer myself. I have lost too many parts. They do not fit together anymore. I am no longer sister, daughter, First, or Keeper.

The parts that stay are sparse.

On the back of my eyelids, I can see the anchor that is no longer there. It calls to me. I want it. I do not want it. I am adrift, caught in a storm and I cannot choose my own path.

It calls to me.

“He doesn’t know.” Cole’s voice is distant and close at the same time. “It isn’t _his_ anymore.”

“Mine.” I whisper, and the anchor on the back of my eyes pulses, wisps that reach out to me, _yours_.

“There are things in this world that will always be yours.” Cole says.

“Yes.” I whisper, palm flat against the place Mahanon’s heart was last beating. Then not.

“They are afraid for you. They don’t know where you are.”

“Did you say anything?”

“I told them you were leaving.”

“I am already gone.”

“I told them you aren’t coming back.”

“I am no longer what I once was.”

Cole’s voice, in my ear, “I told Dorian that you love him and that you’re sorry you couldn’t say it that time in Halamshiral. You didn’t call him. Out of all of them, he was the one you didn’t say anything to. I told him it was because you loved him too much.”

I swallow and nod, mouth dry.

I do. I do love Dorian, a brother and friend. So close, our branches tangle, the tips of our roots touch.

“He hurt, but he understood. He grieves.”

“I am gone.” I answer. “I do not know who will return to the world.”

“Will the person you are becoming still help people?”

I turn and seek Cole’s face out and reach for him. His hand is gentle in mine.

“The person I am becoming will always love you, Cole.” I answer.

“Will that person forgive?”

“I don’t know, Cole.” I close my eyes. Betrayer, bitter parts of me whisper. _He loved us_ , I know. “He seeks redemption, but doesn’t he realize that there is nothing left to redeem?”

“You cannot redeem him, but you can’t forgive him, either. He makes tragedies out of what is already gone. He drags the ghosts back because he doesn’t know better. You could teach him. You know how. You know how to let the bones lie. You know grief.”

My heart wails.

“I do.”

“Teach him. Show him.”

“Yes.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mala Suledin Nadas [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794350) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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